


The Difficulties of Deciphering Cultural Code

by beformista



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Romance, Translation from Russian, Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25644001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beformista/pseuds/beformista
Summary: "Where did you come from, why am I so unbearably curious about you, and what am I going to do about it?" Also, a few words about biological experiments, secret service on different planets and various marvels of the Universe.A translation of a Russian fic "Трудности расшифровки культурных кодов" by Raznoglazaya
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25
Collections: Marvel Trumps Hate 2018





	The Difficulties of Deciphering Cultural Code

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Трудности расшифровки культурных кодов](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10349046) by [Raznoglazaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raznoglazaya/pseuds/Raznoglazaya). 



> Many thanks to Raznoglazaya for first, allowing to translate this story, and then providing translations of poems Tony sends to his mother.

_“If you want to understand something, look at it from a star”_

_“Charles de Gaulle_

"... there will be some Cetagandans at the banquet, as well, so it definitely won't be boring. You know them."

"I don't."

"Oh, come on. I didn't mean you know them personally, just in general. They're always so prim and proper, and elegant. And each of them smells like a perfume shop."

"I don't think I've ever smelled a whole perfume shop. Or – even less likely – a Cetagandan."

"Captain Rogers, has anyone ever told you that you're a spoilsport?" Captain Vorbarton's tone sounded almost official. He was usually such a fun and bright person, so easy-going, that a lot of people mistakenly presumed him to be shallow. 

"Yes, many times," Steve nodded.

The last half a year, he would describe his mood and state as 'not happy'. He wasn't happy about the wound, he wasn't happy about the rehabilitation, and more than anything he wasn't happy about being transferred to the headquarters. He wasn’t used to banquets and mingling, and intrigues, even if he learned how to deal with all of that. Now, there were those Cetagandans. As if the Escobarans and the Komarrans weren't enough of a problem, already.

"Then I'll repeat it," Vorbarton nonchalantly waved his hand. "But it should be interesting indeed. Their new Consul of cultural affairs is coming..."

That captured Captain Rogers' attention. Eight out of ten times 'a consul of cultural affairs' meant 'high-ranking spy', and that, at least, promised some action that didn't involve redirecting reports or throwing sand in people's eyes. The last few weeks Steve awfully missed normal work; at this point, he would've appreciated courier’s duties, even something like...

"What happened to the last one?" he asked.

"Some tragic story involving poisoning," Vorbarton rolled his eyes. "Either he drank something, or inhaled something, or another one of our people rejected by him didn't quite understand that she was not only not considered beautiful for them, but rather the opposite, and poked him with a poisoned pin. Either way, he's quite alive, but deeply unhappy and cannot continue fulfilling his duties. That, of course, is strange in itself, it's not that easy to poison a ghem-lord, they’re more likely to poison someone themselves. Whom, do you think, the Cets will send to take his place?"

Steve thought about it for a bit. The last Consul was old by Barrayaran standards, though still quite in the active age for a Cetagandan. He was from an unremarkable ghem-clan and was all just... average. A true spy: of average height, average built, with classical, but ordinary face, even his ghem face paint – light-green and light-blue – didn't leave a trace in your memory.

"Someone even more ordinary and right, by their standards. Someone who wouldn't care about local beauties and would keep only Empire's interests in mind," suggested Captain Rogers.

"But I'm willing to bet it'd be someone strange, exiled here for a misdemeanor... whatever they consider a misdemeanor. Disclosing someone's genetic code?" answered Captain Vorbarton.

As the future had it, they were both far from the truth: the new consul, introduced to them at the start of the banquet, was completely wrong. For one, Steve was already used to the fact that all Cetagandans were tall, even than compared to him, but this one was slightly shorter, and for their people could probably almost be considered a dwarf.

Also, they all had long hair, intricately styled or tied together into something of a 'formal' tail.

The highly artistic black chaos that crowned the Consul's head could not be categorized as either. His hair dress had some long braids in it, while some strands were cut short, and it even included a few tails and some strange things clearly of technical importance, even though they looked like decoration.

It was impossible to properly see the ghem-lord's facial features under his official face paint, but to Steve he seemed young and not quite well versed in the art of seeming unreadable. For one, the bright strokes of paint especially noticeable on the grey background covering most of his face moved again and again, following the changes of his facial expressions. The pattern seemed intricate enough (a sign of the Consul's importance in the Empire), but Steve couldn't understand what exactly they were meant to be saying, other than the Consul's rank. He immediately decided to read something other than military manuals about Cetagandan face paint. 

'Colonel,' noted Steve. Strange or not, the ghem-lord's rank was clearly awarded for more than his beautiful eyes. Though they were, of course, worthy of attention: big and changing under a certain light from black to dark-blue or brown.

‘Well, isn’t this a good time to stand here ogling his eyes', reprimanded himself Captain Rogers.

Although the ghem-lord didn't seem to have noticed a pause in the conversation. Perhaps, because he himself was staring at Steve like... Here, Captain Rogers' experience landed him so many options for comparison that he had to go with a generalized: 'like someone predatory and hungry looking at something delicious'.

The evening was progressing as it should, the officers from the Cetagandan Empire's embassy were gracious hosts and didn't let the guests get bored. The Consul, indeed, turned out to be a ghem-colonel Stark (that, of course, sounded quite Cetagandan, unlike a more familiar name Anthony). He was gliding around the hall that was decorated like a neglected autumn garden, while leading a few conversations at once, even, as Steve noticed, on a few different levels. His kind replies to questions concerning the culture of his Empire were underlined with an almost indistinguishable sense of superiority. Although he seemed to genuinely appreciate and praise Barrayaran culture as well. He knew it quite well, apparently, but to Steve, and a few others, as he noticed, it seemed like a joy of a parent looking at a well-executed drawing of a five-year-old. He graciously evaded questions about politics, but also asked nonchalantly about everything, including the particulars of relationships in the Barrayaran imperial court. 

"This one doesn't even need fast-penta," whispered Vorbarton, passing Steve by with a glass of something non-alcoholic, and then whisked away a fellow with too big a mouth from the crowd surrounding the Consul and quickly but efficiently explained to him what he was doing wrong.

Eventually, the conversations touched upon biotechnology. Enough time had passed that it wasn't considered something like dangerous magic on Barrayar, but the Cetagandan Empire was still miles ahead of anyone else.

"Except for Jackson's Whole, of course," chirped one of the Embassy's officers, clearly considering it safe to speak about. "People say what they do there is genuinely miraculous."

"Oh yes," the ghem-colonel with a Barrayaran name readily agreed. "They stitch the genome with a rusty needle. Would you mind if we won't talk about this place again in this context?"

Captain Rogers took note of this. This was the first time he heard something like genuine emotion – disgust in this particular case – in the masterfully controlled Colonel's voice.

Stark, however, didn't give Captain Rogers enough time to figure him out.

"Excuse me, but I'm afraid I'll have to leave you for a moment. It seems my face paint got smudged," he declared and swiftly disappeared into one of the well-concealed restrooms. His movement made a few bright holographic leaves tear from the equally holographic branches and slowly fall under the guests' feet. Artfully constructed illusion lay on the floor for a few more moments, pleasing the guests' eyes, and then disappeared like a mirage.

"Usually the Cets don't discuss their face paint so directly," remarked Vorbarton under his breath, appearing next to Steve again. The victim of his earlier lecture, pale and miserable, was shifting from foot to foot, obediently asking for something safer than champagne. Well, it was good Vorbarton caught him in time. "And it would take the temperature of a star's core to make it smudge. It seems that comment really got to him. But why? Where are the ghem-lords and where's Jackson’s Whole?"

"I have no idea." Steve shrugged. "He's just strange, even compared to the last Consul."

"I'd say especially when compared to the last Consul," the easily amused Captain snorted. "Have you seen his hair? Did the hairdresser's right hand have a quarrel with the left?"

"No, that was an accident in the lab," graciously explained Stark, appearing next to them so suddenly, as if he himself was a holographic projection. "I'm sorry; I've accidentally listened in on your conversation. I assume, in a few days’ time my hair will be much more appropriate. But it seemed... unbecoming to cancel a planned event just because of this." 

The Colonel's presumably smudged face paint was not just touched upon, but completely changed. The grey background was nowhere in sight, only red and gold pattern, most probably of his clan. For some reason, it did not consist of traditional swirls and spirals, but of straight lines that at some points turned at straight angles and formed something like Old Earth's Celtic ornaments. Steve noted to himself, again, to find a book about face paint patterns. He did not like feeling like a man having an open book in front of him written in an unfamiliar language.

For once, his buddy had nothing to say, and Steve came to his assistance.

"You're quite right. And please, excuse my colleague, he didn't mean to offend. It's just, we're quite used to seeing specific hair styles on ghem-lords."

"Don’t worry about it," Stark brushed it off. "I would cut it the same way you wear it (it's comfortable and functional), but I'm afraid, my dear mother would have a fit if I've done something like that. We all have to make sacrifices," he said with a barely there hint of something in his voice while looking Steve in the eyes. Captain Rogers preferred to drop the topic, so the Consul picked up another glass from a tray being carried near them and moved to another group, leaving a few more holographic leaves in his wake and a quite distinguishable smell. 

"A perfume shop, you said?" asked Steve after smelling the air. "I'd say an armory."

"This is a very strange Cetagandan," muttered Vorbarton, coming alive again. "And what is it with him sneaking up on people?" Based on Steve's knowledge of his friend, Clint firmly believed he held the monopoly on sneaking up. That was not without reason, either, because even in military issued boots Vorbarton always managed to move quietly.

Steve was far more intrigued by Stark's mention of his mother. All that he learned about the Cetagandan Empire suggested that mostly patriarchal state was ruled by unofficial and well-masked matriarchy, so making important decisions with wives' and mother's approval was quite understandable. Even the Emperor, often officially called as Celestial Father, had four wives and twice as much consorts who had quite real political and, even more importantly, genetic power. But deciding not to cut his hair not to upset his mother? That was peculiar, even for a matriarchy.

"You didn't get a chance to take a look at his records?" asked Vorbarton, surprised, when Steve shared his thoughts. "His mother is an actual haut-lady. I think she was given to his father for exceptional service, or something like that. I'd say it's almost like that tradition to gift a white elephant that some rulers on the Old Earth had, but..."

An haut-lady? Well, that explained careful attention to the hair. Members of haut Cetagandan aristocracy never cut their hair, and it was the main and integral part of their style. So, the mother of the colonel married a ghem-lord, while losing most of her own social standing. She even gave birth to- well, constructed a ghem son.

"Isn't he a bit short for a son of an haut-lady?" asked Steve, after making sure that the big-eared consul was nowhere nearby.

"That's a good question. But you probably shouldn't ask him that, it's likely to be another sore spot. We should try to find out more about him," Vorbarton smirked. He had no idea, of course, that in about a hundred feet away from them an object of his and Steve's captivated attention was saying to his subordinate:

"Find out everything you can about him and his friend – just to be on the safe side. They could be connected to the case..."

***

It wasn’t easy, learning anything about a rather high-ranking Cetagandan without attracting unneeded attention of other Cetagandans. Steve spent more time in his office than he would normally, even though usually he welcomed a chance to escape to the gym or the stadium the moment boring and annoying working hours ended. Cunningly formulating requests and looking for reference to the Colonel in the reports rather than direct mentions of him, Steve managed to learn that the new Consul was even more peculiar than he seemed during the first meeting. For once, he had nothing to do with culture, at least not in the way that would be expected for his position. That was strange in itself, given that refinement and sophistication was almost mandatory for any member of the Cetagandan Empire. Anthony Stark, as his father before him, wasn't involved in genetic construction, didn't paint, didn't sculpt, didn't write music and didn't enjoy dancing. He also wasn't known for literary art. This mostly meant, of course, that he was quite average at anything valued highly by Cetagandan standards which would still be quite excessive, let’s say, for a Barrayaran. All his life, which was, indeed, quite short by human standards, he made only one thing: weapons.

"And here he is discussing Dono The Mad's architectural style, quoting classical poetry and making long term predictions about development of gardens with endemic and imported plants," muttered Captain Rogers looking at the screen. "When did he become an expert in all of this? Yesterday?"

"Seems so," Vorbarton nodded after listening to Steve's findings. They met at sunset, like the spies would in the best novels, in the park that Steve used for running and Clint – to hide from his home life. He dearly loved his wife and adored his three children, but sometimes they could be too much. "I didn't dig up anything on him, but there's a lot of information out there about that haut-lady Mio – at least since she married Stark senior."

"Mio?" Steve repeated, wondering if the name had some meaning behind it or was chosen purely for the way it sounded.

"I gathered it's their version of the name Maria. You know, 'haut Maria' doesn't sound even half as alien and mysterious as 'haut Mio'," Clint smirked. "Anyway, this lady is quite impressive herself, and with her husband... She probably regretted losing her right for that flying soap bubble, but she surely wasn't bored."

Captain Rogers did know about this 'flying soap bubble', haut-ladies that appeared sometimes in the news reels moved around with these special anti-gravity platforms with the force bubbles around them. The bubbles themselves were transparent only from the inside, so those unworthy could not look at the ladies flying somewhere on their business, but the ladies themselves could see everything and draw conclusions. Having to step down the social ladder to become a wife of a ghem-lord, haut Mio did lose the right to use this symbol of the highest race. Steve wondered if she indeed regretted it.

"So, what did you learn?" Steve came back from his thoughts. "She was making weapons, too, instead of playing with the offspings' genomes?"

"Oh no, how could you think that, she's an haut-lady," Vorbarton made a long face. "But she was very busy. In fact, as it turns out, she didn't wait to be given to a nosy ghem-lord, she was pushing for it."

"You mean she volunteered? That's weird," Steve tried to imagine what could be going through a mind of a creature that resembled a human more out of habit than necessity and failed.

"Well, not exactly. Her future husband, now deceased, was also quite an enterprising individual. One might say outstanding, in some ways. And when he started working with an Escobaran company that was involved with genetic engineering, it was only natural to add a supervisor that, by default, knew more than him," Clint shook his head, marveling at the oddity of Cetagandan rules.

"I'm presuming something went wrong," Steve looked at his friend curiously, prodding him to continue. "Did it turn out that he knew more after all?"

"Maybe. Their home life is what went wrong."

"What do you mean? They didn't like each other, and it affected their son?"

"Steve, what exactly do you know about Cetagandans?" Clint snorted. "It's normal for them not to like each other. Marriage is a genetic contract between the houses... I think the Cets themselves call them constellations. The parents are needed for their genetic material and to take part in ceremonies. They're not required, and even discouraged from seeing each other outside of those."

"So, you're saying, that their home life was wrong because they liked each other?" Steve asked, surprised.

"Exactly. People say they even loved each other. The way you can, anyway, in such a strange society," Vorbarton nodded and sighed: he loved his wife and his children so much, he couldn't even imagine how you could be married and yet live without them. "So, they made a nice family, took a couple of secret projects on, one of which – not so secret anymore – was making a son. And then the head of the family, father of our Consul, was killed under mysterious circumstances by unknown perpetrators. Haut Mio went into mourning and became a recluse, and her son, very adventurous for his age, came to Barrayar. Something's wrong here, Steve."

"Something's wrong there, you mean. Something is rotten in the state of Cetaganda," Steve paraphrased a quote from a classic author. "Do you think he reacted like that to a mention of Jackson's Whole because their people are involved in the death of his father?"

"Do you have a different explanation?" asked Vorbarton. "I'm more curious about another thing: what's he doing here and are there Jackson's Whole agents around? That would be very unfortunate. Cetagandans, at least, have a certain code of conduct, as for the Jacksonians..."

"I'll think about it, and look for more information," Steve nodded. "At least, there'll be some use out of my temporary transfer to the headquarters."

"Hey, wait, are you leaving already?" That seemed to have upset Clint. "I thought we'd hang out..."

"Sorry. I have plans for the evening," Rogers spread his hands.

"Oh, finally. What's her name?" his friend interpreted Steve’s answer in his own way.

"If I remember correctly, it's 'Traditional ghem face paint for idiots and Barrayarans, second edition, revised and brought to perfection'," Steve sighed. "The author's someone named Hen Rau. He's Cetagandan, of course."

"Yeah, I shouldn't have hoped you'll have a date that’s not your work," Clint made a sour face. "Well, have fun with your reading. I'll go home, too, and try not to lose my mind. It's my youngest daughter’s birthday next week, and everyone's already going crazy," he lamented.

***

Ghem-colonel Stark also spent his evening busy as a bee. His mother's most trusted ba ran itself ragged bringing new documents from the Embassy's library and running all the other errands Stark came up with.

"Jarvis, I need data on the admission to their... how's that institution called? Military academy? Well, the place where they train officers. For the last ten years," the ghem gave yet another task to his servant. "Then you can rest."

"As you wish," the ba responded in an even tone. "Let me ask, what are you looking for? If I know, I will be able to locate the files faster."

"I look for everything concerning one Barrayaran captain. But I don't want anyone to understand that by following the requests I made," answered Stark. The ba was indeed trusted, so there was no need to reproach him for unnecessary curiosity, or to conceal his motives.

"I see," the ba nodded and went on his search. The ghem-colonel sighed and sat down to compose a letter home. There was nothing to say, in particular, but he couldn't leave his mother without news, nor to write in prose that disgusted her so. After all, haut-ladies were such sublime and sensitive creatures.

Stark didn't have a talent for poetry, all his inclinations were towards development of technology. But he looked at the terminal, slowly breathed out, as if preparing to enter into a cold lake, and stroked the keyboard.

_‘It’s dull and cold in here, mother dearest. I need to be so shrewd to know whatever: these people aren’t barbaric, but suspicious, and from the War they see us as a threat. Security Department reads my letters and thinks that I don’t know it – very clever, well, officer, I hope you like my rhyming. Your spies aren’t into poetry, I bet._

_No friends or foes in sickening politeness at Barrayaran court – or they just show it. Nobody doesn’t hate us (two denials, these language rules can almost make me sing). The rest is nice: they have those balls, and coaches, those duels and romance of old – you know it, and that archaic charm of Barrayarans – well, I suppose, that’s what we call “the thing”.’_

Since there was nothing left to say, ghem-colonel sent the letter, rolled around in his chair, giving his eyes and his head a chance to rest.

From what he managed to discover, there was no way that Captain Rogers, no matter how secret or mysterious his personal files were, ever worked for Jackson's Whole or had any connection to it at all. But then again, as of now, it was impossible to prove the opposite. The Captain's file was detailed only about the events of the last three months: the reasons for his wound and transfer to the headquarters were clear – Captain Rogers, though not a Vor, seemed to follow a similar bizarre code of honor that compelled him to protect the innocents even at the cost of his own life. Anything that happened before these three months, however, was described in simplest terms: he was born in the family of a simple soldier and a nurse, he was ill for a long time; when his father died in the line of duty, he decided to enroll in the academy and follow in his footsteps. After numerous failed attempts, he finally achieved his goal, and since then had been an excellent student in combat and all other types of training.

"What kind of duty his father could die in the line of during peacetime? Or was it the third war with us? No, couldn't be it, they still don't have the concept of posthumous children," Stark muttered, interested, and immediately rewarded with yet another task the ba that returned with a new stack of useful documents. The ba nodded and left to search for the file. Stark felt an irrational urge to apologize, but suppressed it: the ba wouldn't understand. Genetically modified genderless servants of haut were absolutely loyal to their mistresses, but didn't express a wide range of emotional responses – or so everyone believed. Stark himself often thought that his mother's ba, while fulfilling his every whim exactly, was often sarcastic in his responses. Though as of now, he hasn’t managed to catch the creature in the act.

The information, discovered by Jarvis, perplexed Stark: no Rogers, with a 'Vor' in the front or without, ever attended the academy.

"I couldn't have made a mistake with the date, the age and rank are clearly pointing to it," muttered the ghem and frowned. Could he have made a mistake, estimating the age of people living such short lives? He couldn't have. Although...

Again, he dived into Captain Rogers' personal records, looking for confirmation to his thoughts.

"Why would anyone consider this document to be complete when it doesn't even state his age!" he cried out expressively after a few minutes.

"For record keeping, sir," calmly replied the ba, appearing beside him like a family ghost. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't find personal records of the elder Rogers. Either the records are broken, which is not uncommon in barbaric worlds, or I was looking for it in the wrong place."

"Hmm, maybe it's both," muttered Stark. "Anyway, you can go rest now. I'll torment the local network with questions myself."

***

The second edition of 'Traditional ghem face paint for idiots and Barrayarans' turned out to be a smaller file, most of which was comprised of colorful schemes, drawings and photographs. There was not a lot of text, so Steve read it first, but quickly understood that trying to fathom it without the pictures was confusing.

"It's hard to be a ghem," he muttered and started reading again, more attentively this time, glancing at pictures at all the appropriate times and studying them with all seriousness. Well, it was actually quite useful: he managed to learn, for example, that clan colors of the new consul were suggesting inhuman strength and striving for perfection, and the pattern – outstanding propensity for attracting attention.

In addition to that, he learned about personalizing ancestors' spirits, constant readiness for death, presence of the divine forces and many other things that left him slightly concerned. Why did the Emperor of Cetaganda send a spy in elder colors, if those themselves show that ghem-lord Stark is much more important and valuable in the homeland?

Nevertheless, the book, colorful and frivolous, left the Captain with more questions than answers. Reading it was like trying to eat a meringue cake made of lead. Steve couldn't understand if the book was deliberately written in such a way, or if an actually quite normal text didn't resonate correctly with his psyche, disturbed by his conversation with the Consul.

More than anything, of course, the book was quite telling about the author. Steve imagined him as a sarcastic, but not evil, man with extremely frivolous nature who enjoyed, quite unselfishly, enlightening 'the barbarians'.

"Well? What have you learned from the manual with an offensive title?" asked Clint, sitting next to Steve at lunch the next day.

"A lot of peculiar things about the face paint of that man and almost nothing about himself. Ah, also that according to their weird notions of social order, his mother spent half her life in some higher realm before descending to the sinful earth to get married to his father."

"Right, if this is going to be useful, it's not clear, how," Clint lowered his voice and said, in a most conspiratorial tone. "That man is looking for information about you and your family. He's doing it very carefully and professionally, too, the security services still haven’t noticed anything, and I wouldn't, if I wasn't deliberately paying attention. I don't know what is it about the secret part of your records, Steve, but he's very serious about finding it. You aren't an heir of Vorbarr, by any chance?"

"Most certainly not," Steve brushed him off. "My eyes are blue, they all have grey eyes, you know that."

"Not convincing enough. What if it's lenses?" Vorbarton squinted. "Alright, alright, I'm not going to ask you to take your eyes out for expertise. I'd just really like to know what he wants from you."

Steve actually knew what could've interested the ghem-lord in his biography. But where could Stark find the initial information?

"I need to speak to the Colonel," he said after a while. "If he finds the secret part of the records, there's going to be trouble."

"For you and the Colonel, or for you and me?"

"In this case, for Barrayar," the Captain 'reassured' his friend.

"Are you sure you're not a lost Vorbarr? Maybe you're not even a Barrayaran but a well-concealed Cetagandan? You're definitely tall enough to be one, and the way you look..."

"No!" Rogers protested. "I'm not Cetagandan! I'm sorry, Clint, I can't tell you. Just believe me, not all secrets on Barrayar have to do with disguised heirs of the imperial dynasty. Or anyone's heirs."

***

Stark fell asleep on notepads stacked on the stationary comm. That construction didn’t work well as a pillow, so the ghem-lord's mood upon waking up was far from ideal.

"Jarvis, make me a coffee," he grunted, raising his head and massaging his stiff neck. "This story is going to drive me crazy. None of the ends meet. Why I can't find anything about the Captain I'm interested in and everything about another one, including his wife's genealogy? This Rogers can't be older than thirty. I believe in 'Betan rejuvenation procedure' approximately as much as that the ancestors are looking upon me."

"Actually, he can be," the ba informed him, calmly. "He wouldn't necessarily have to withstand physical deterioration through all his life."

"Wait, what?" Stark froze with his hands behind his head.

"He could've spent some time in cryosleep," suggested the ba, leaving the office.

"Wait! Where did that idea come from?"

"Do you not require coffee anymore?" the creature stopped at the door. "Your dear mother send a message while you were asleep. As I could understand, that was the thought she was trying to communicate."

"Why didn't you wake me up?" Stark growled.

"I tried," the ba let out a sigh. "You were sleeping very deeply, hugging the documents."

"Alright... Show me the message and make that coffee after all," Stark turned back to the comm and stared at his mother's message. "Haut-ladies," he groaned after about thirty seconds spent studying short lines. "Why?"

The haut-lady Mio's message read:

_‘Barrayaran’s soul  
Was dressed in cold winter ice,  
Waited for the spring.'_

Stark looked at the printed text, but in his mind he saw instead strokes, and swirls of his mother's elegant handwriting. He was angry.

"But this is important! This is important to her, so why, for once in her life, she couldn't just write it plainly and in detail?" he exclaimed in distress. The ba, who returned with the coffee, shook his head.

"My mistress is an haut-lady, even if she lost her status. She cannot use prose; it's too mundane for her."

"Yes, and my mother is anything but mundane," Stark agreed. "Alright, let's say you understood the haiku correctly. I have no chance of comprehending any of it, so I'm going to rely on your opinion. Let's say the Captain did spend a few years in cryosleep. The question now is, how many? And what led him to it in the first place – an injury? A need for disguise? Or something else? Am I even looking in the right place?"

The ba shrugged. Sometimes it was very pleased with its status – having to process large amounts of information was one thing, having to think for itself however...

When the cup of coffee, much larger than anything customary for Cetaganda and more resembling of a pool, improved the ghem-lord's mood, his intellectual abilities also increased.

"If I can't find the information indirectly, I should try just asking for it. Not the traditional way for a ghem-lord, but it works sometimes," he instructed his reflection in the mirror. The reflection nodded and looked at its owner with the sorrow of all Cetagandans. It didn't like his hairstyle and the speed with which his hair was growing.

The suitable occasion for asking the question came quite soon: as a part of cultural exchange program, the Cetagandan Embassy traditionally organized a festival of admiring the moon (or, in case of Barrayar – the moons). Even the stubbornest and most traditional Vors wouldn't decline the invitation – namely because they saw nothing bad in admiring moons and eating light appetizers. If the Cetagandans wanted to see each satellite as a hare preparing the powder of immortality – let them, as long as they didn't start wars because of it. Even though nobody, including the Catagadans themselves, could understand, how believing in the hare living on the moon co-existed with secure knowledge that it didn't, in fact, exist due to almost complete exploration of space.

"The moon isn't bright enough," complained Stark, responsible for organizing all the festivities. "It should be more saturated. And don't tell me it's going to be fine the night of the festival, I'm not going to believe it. Why do I always have to do everything myself!"

"Are you going to brighten up the yellow moon of Barrayar? How exactly do you plan on doing that? And what's to be made of the blue one?" Jarvis recently behaved like an exemplary ba, so even his irritating pointed questions didn't bother Stark.

"I'll set up screens with color correction," decided Stark. "And thank you for reminding me of the blue moon. I should think what to do with it – should I try to dim it, or make it brighter as well? What had my predecessor done?"

"As a rule, he left everything as it is," answered the ba. "But you can decide for yourself. No one, it seems, is going to be surprised."

'Here it is again!' thought Stark, but didn't start bickering with the ba, just nodded and continued the calculations. Following the principle 'can't hide it – put it on display', he decided not to dim the second moon, after all. So, the night in question, the guests of the embassy froze next to the windows, admiring the beauty and splendor of the autumn sky. Both moons shined so bright, as if the hares supposedly inhabiting them stopped whatever they were doing before and rubbed the surfaces of the moons until they shone like precious metals. The stars, that shouldn't have seemed so bright against the scattered night lights, glittered like hot metal spikes pinned to the dark blue velvet of the night.

"I've never noticed our moons to be so... magnificent," muttered Vorbarton. He came to the festival accompanied by his wife, but she quickly found herself a group of friends among Vor-ladies and stopped needing his presence. 

"They're not. I think it's some machinations of the new Consul," answered Steve. "But it is beautiful, that I have to admit."

The moons practically seemed to be saffron and lilac, which caused an unpleasant association with the face paint of ghem-lord Rau in Steve's mind. He didn't know him personally, of course, but the lord already had an unpleasant influence on his way of thinking. That valuable association, however, Steve decided not to share with his friend.

The new Consul, as if just waiting to be mentioned, appeared by the side and threw back his head, looking at the night sky.

"Beautiful," he said. "Your planet's very lucky, there's a nice view from here."

"I guess," agreed Steve, but didn't look again at the night sky, instead glancing meaningfully at Clint. The last one only shrugged his shoulders, as if saying 'I don't know why this Cet is practically glued to you'. "I think we have some things to discuss, in lieu of admiring the moons." Rogers decided to take the bull by the horns, although the times than Barrayarans believed Cetagandans to have, besides the braids, also horns, hoofs and sulfurous smoke coming from their nostrils have long passed.

"Perhaps," the Consul smiled mysteriously which made the patterns on his face, even more intricate than the last time, form a peculiar picture, "should we go somewhere quite?"

Clint tried to warn Steve with a gaze, but wasn't successful: Rogers already nodded and proceeded to follow the Cetagandan somewhere behind the curtain that looked quite real, but was probably, like most things at the banquet, a hologram.

It was far quieter behind the curtain, which proved it to be specially made: no real fabric would be this soundproof. It was also more worrying. Despite his vast experience, Steve never had a chance to stay alone with a Cetagandan consul, especially such this interested, that was practically eating him with his gaze.

"So, what is this you wanted to talk about?" Now the Cetagandan was the one taking the bull by the horns. "I have a few questions for you, but they can wait."

"Let me guess: those questions have something to do with your recent research activities that made our whole internal network shake," of course, no network was actually shaking, except for Vorbarton's threads, but Steve wasn't going to indulge that information to the Consul.

"Oh, that is surprising. But you're right," Stark inclined his head, either admitting non-verbally Steve's assumptions, or apologizing for intruding into the network. "After our first meeting, I was very intrigued by you and wanted to learn some things. And either you're the biggest mystery of the Barrayaran Empire, or your archives are a complete mess."

Steve quickly considered his choices. What could the Cetagandan discover, when he was cautious of digging too deep? Perhaps, the lack of his surname in the list of Academy's alumni. That wasn't a big problem.

"Actually, I was going to ask you what caused such an interest in me. And also, since we have a chance to talk uninterrupted, to ask some things about your face paint."

"The face paint?" Stark raised his eyebrows and the pattern changed again, as if Steve was talking to a chameleon or a kaleidoscope instead of a Cetagandan. "Let's start with this, then, it's the easiest question."

"I've read an interesting article written by your compatriot. There's a lot in it about symbolic meaning of the paint, but almost nothing about what's it made of and how it's applied."

"I can't say what's it made of, that's an internal secret, but then again, every house has its own recipe." Stark demonstratively spread his hands. "As for the application, it's quite simple. The war paint is a decal: you make the foundation of a specific color, then put the decal on, wait for a few seconds, while it reacts, then tear away the top layer. The familial face paint is applied with special brushes."

"So, you must be a decent painter," Steve grinned, imagining the Consul with a brush in his hand, carefully drawing lines and swirls. The Cetagandan in his mind immediately stuck his tongue out and diligently crossed his eyes, so Steve quickly got rid of the vision.

"Me? No, I can't do this," scoffed Stark. "It's Jarvis, a very careful creature with an impeccable sense of beauty."

Steve heard something about Jarvis from the omnipresent Clint: supposedly, there was something about a few servants in the declaration the Cetagandan had to fill before landing on the planet. Jarvis was mentioned as something of a personal squire for the Consul. Steve didn't have a chance to pay attention to them, though, because they were almost never seen outside the Embassy.

"And do all the gem-lords allow third parties to apply their face paint?"

"No, only the busiest and the most prone to ignoring centuries old traditions," Stark shifted his weight from his heel to toe and, looking at Rogers, decided not to start with the truth. "I started to look up information about you after I was told that you were trying to discreetly learn about me and my family."

"My curiosity is quite natural. Not every day Vorbarr-Sultana gets a new Cetagandan consul." Steve's face expression didn't change, but he berated himself for not thinking of taking away the time-stamps of his requests. He had a feeling Stark was lying and using this as a convenient excuse, but he couldn't think of a way to prove it.

"Makes sense," the Cetagandan nodded. "But wouldn't it be easier to just ask me about everything you wanted to know during that banquet? I didn't think I made an impression of someone who holds back..."

'No, you made an impression of an intel gathering station, poorly masquerading as a Cetagandan,' thought Steve with a hint of awe. The ghem-lord was looking at him with his naturally mournful eyes and almost forcing Steve to feel guilty – look at him, playing spy games around a perfectly innocent consul, making him feel nervous, and now looming like a vengeful spirit...

Rogers shook his head, briefly, throwing off the feeling. He found no guilt in his actions, and the Cetagandans, while they weren't enemies anymore, still couldn't be trusted.

"I'm sorry, I thought of most of the questions too lately, so I tried to satiate my curiosity with available legal methods," he mentally smacked himself upside the head for starting to apologize and justify his actions.

"I'll be honest, the same's true about me," the weird Cetagandan smiled and continued, "a truth for a truth? You can ask me, I'll ask you, and we both will leave this meeting enlightened."

While Steve nodded and agreed, a thought raced through his mind, that he believed in Cetagandan ability to tell the truth even less than in their demonstrative friendliness, but he let it go. The important thing was to not say anything unnecessary and to learn from the Cetagandan more than he could learn from Steve, or the Colonel wouldn't ever forgive him.

Stark waved his long silk sleeve towards a couple of low chairs just calling for them to get comfortable and a table with some pots, cups and pialas.

"How's your saying goes? There's no truth in legs? Let's sit down and talk like civilized people," having got Steve's consent to the game, Stark started smiling, and his voice, silky smooth before, got positively hypnotizing. Steve was actually naturally insusceptible to hypnosis, and to fast-penta since he took the new job. The rest of the substances that could cause a sudden urge to spill anything didn't work on him since that old experiment, so he just smiled back, got comfortable in one of the chairs and allowed himself to be presented with a cup of tea.

The tea was light, almost transparent, with a hint of jasmine and scopolamine. Steve, who was made allergic to all types of pentothal, appreciated the traditional choice of the drug by his host, as he swerved the tea in his cup and enjoyed the pleasant smell.

"How do you like it," asked Stark in the same smooth tone.

"It's a great choice. I'm afraid I don't know as much about sorts of green tea, as you do. Can you tell me its name? I'd like to order it for myself," Steve gave him a sweet smile, not betraying his anger for finding a drug that could be used as a sort of truth serum in it. On second thought, he wasn't even all that angry – he would probably do the same thing in Stark's position.

"Of course. It's called Yu Ju. I'm afraid, it's not well suited to autumn ceremonies, but it's just too good."

Rogers nodded and made note to remember the name. Drugs or no drugs, it was quite tasty.

"In the common tongue, Yu Ju means jade pole," the ghem-lord added with a somewhat peculiar smile. Steve thought that he should get a new manual, this time on Cetagandan tea, and possibly a third one about Cetagandan innuendos.

"I'm suspecting that has a deep meaning," he remarked in a cautious tone. "So, who's going to be telling truth first?"

"Well, you've shown the intent to have a private conversation with me first, so I suppose the first turn is mine. Ask away," Stark leaned back in his chair and sipped his tea. Steve belatedly remembered that most of artificially perfected citizens of Cetaganda had roughly the same abilities as he did, so the drug wasn't going to have an effect on his companion.

"Hm... why are you... so short for a ghem-lord?" Rogers decided to save the artillery for later, but still poke Stark with a stick. The Consul, however, didn't seem either surprised or offended.

"My father has been short. Something during the construction process went wrong, or maybe, the height was sacrificed for more important things," Stark shrugged.

"So, you do inherit some of the traits of your parents?"

"Not normally, especially not traits like that." Stark sighed. "My mother, however, has been emotionally attached to my father, so she made some adjustments. Nobody dared argue with her: if an haut-lady wants her son to resemble her husband, that's a lovely quirk, nothing more. My turn. Why is there no information in your Academy archives about your enrollment and graduation?"

Steve almost sighed internally. Yes, that was what Stark discovered, and he had a perfectly acceptable legend for this occasion that he didn't hesitate in repeating, with appropriate stumbles and long pauses in right places.

"I'm guessing you were looking for a Steve Rogers. But that wasn't always my name. I applied to the Academy four times, and I've only managed to get enrolled when I used my mother's maiden name."

"Hm... that's very... Betan," commented Stark. "What was your mother's maiden name?"

"Stuart," Steve admitted. "Some laugh and say it's ironic."

Stark considered it, drawing his eyebrows together, most likely trying to figure out what Steve was alluding to, as Steve had to do earlier upon hearing the tea's name. In Stark's place, Steve would be planning on surrounding himself with books and dictionaries in the evening, he was used to that during his rehabilitation and courses, but of course, only the Cetagandan knew what he was planning on doing.

"So, Steven Grant Stuart instead of Steven Grant Rogers?"

"No 'Steven'. It's a long story, but I had to part with the first name as well. It came from my father's line, and I had to... forget about it for a while," Steve frowned and looked away in a calculated move dedicated to show Stark a clear picture of embarrassment, anger and even shame.

"I think I understand," Stark nodded after a moment's consideration. "Something tells me I shouldn't ask any further questions about that."

"I'd say so," Steve confirmed. "Well, my turn again?"

Stark nodded and poured him more tea. Steve gathered his thoughts and almost decided on a question, when the most inconspicuous-looking person came behind their screen and started whispering something into Stark's ear. As far as Steve could see through the face paint, the man frowned and sent the servant, if it was indeed a servant, away with a wave of his hand.

"I'm sorry, Captain, but I'm afraid some urgent business requires seeing to. Keep your question, I think we'll find time to talk again, and then you can ask me."

The Cetagandan disappeared into thin air again, leaving Steve with his drugged tea and unanswered questions.

***

"But you told me to call you as soon as your mother's message arrived!" the ba explained.

"At this particular moment, it was very untimely," the ghem-lord hissed back at him.

"How would I know? I've received an order, I quote 'to wake me up in the middle of the night and drag me by my ears from anything'."

"You didn't literally drag me by my ears, though. So, you are perfectly capable of thinking and not just following the letter of your orders," Stark sighed. "I know you're constantly mocking me – and be my guest for that, but don't do anything like this again. I really need to get closer to that Barrayaran. Although, he doesn’t seem to be the person I'm looking for. Where's the message?"

The screen of the comm on Jarvis' hand was just big enough to fit all of the haut-lady Mio's message:

_‘A mirage can seem  
To be a nice oasis.  
Don’t trust its cool air.'_

The council put his hands into his already disheveled hair and gave a suffering moan.

"Again? Jarvis, you understand her better. What does this koan mean?"

"It's not a koan, it's a haiku," the ba corrected, calmly. "I suppose my mistress is telling you not to waste your time on information that seems true but is not."

"Great. Thanks. Why does it seem to me that my mother knows much more, than me, even staying so far away? Why didn't she come here, then, to separate mirage from oasis and the wheat from the chaff?"

"And the sheep from the goats," added the educated ba, turning off the comm. "My mistress..."

"Yes, I know! She's above such earthly concerns. And I am, apparently, just grounded enough to be sent to oecumene's backyard and rack my brains over this kind of orders. The poetry's enough to break anyone's brain in itself, and then there's the initial wording of the task! You know, there's this book from the Old Earth, sort of a cultural phenomenon, at least for the Barrayarans of Russian decent. The main character had to suffer through the same things I do."

Stark paced around the room him and his ba were occupying and declared in a rather sarcastic tone:

“If you're able, bring to me  
Something-That-Can-Never-Be,  
Neither on this planet's surface,  
Nor out there running free.  
Don't come up with cunning schemes,  
Or excuse your shortcomings,  
If you fail, then void and darkness  
is what you will end up in.  
As for me, I won't join in,  
So you'd better now begin,  
Interests of Barrayar are  
More valuable than anything.”

The ba, clearly shocked by the display, opened its eyes wide and, it seems, for the first time in its life could not find any words to answer the troubled mistress' son. Or maybe, it just wasn't familiar with archaic Russian.

"Alright, I've calmed down. Find me the file on this... Grant Stuart. Let's see, if that's the mirage mother was so gracious to warn me about from half the galaxy away.”

***

For a while, everything went quite. Neither the strange Cetagandan, nor his servants tried to access any more files, other than that of Grant Stuart, which was to be expected. No mandatory, or just interesting events were being held in the Empire's Embassy, and Clint wasn't calling his buddy to the park – it seems, after surviving the youngest daughter's birthday Vorbarton’s household quieted down as well.

Steve had plenty of time to enjoy the silence, and then get bored again. Judging by lack of crazy activity from the Consul, he found quite satisfying the fake 'true' dossier, the supposedly shameful past of the elder Rogers, the problems it caused his son and their happy resolution and lost all interest in the captain. The cCaptain himself couldn't say the same, but his interest migrated from the Consul to all his countrymen, so he quite profoundly confused the librarians, starting to order documents that went out of free access due to never being needed on everything that had to do with Cetagandan Empire. The author of most of them was the same curious person Henn Rau, and seeing as the first was signed Captain Rau, and the last – Colonel Rau, the Cetagandan wasn't known only for his literary ambitions.

Steve spent probably the calmest month in his life studying books and video-files, so he was quite surprised getting a comm-call from Vorbarton in the middle of an almost winter night. His friend was grim and focused, not resembling his usual behavior at all.

"Steve. Get to the Imperial Security head-quarters. I'll meet you at the right entrance. It's urgent."

'Urgent' always meant 'right now' for Steve, so he nodded and was going to disconnect, when Clint added:

"Your Cet got arrested."

'Right now' transformed into 'ten minutes ago', and Steve hung up to start getting ready with a speed breaking all military regulations.

"What did he do?" he asked, instead of greeting Clint who emerged from the shadows next to an inconspicuous door.

"He's swearing he's done nothing. That's maybe true, but his servant was trying to sabotage one of our replicator banks."

"For what?"

"How should I know? That's not my division at all, I only learned about it because Nat called me an hour ago. The case got handed to her, 'cause... you know, it's a delicate issue. Future mothers aren't going to talk to some guys from Security, and she always manages to get people to trust her."

"And fear," Steve added, who, as far as his cover allowed, was friends with Natasha Vorromanof, a very serious daughter of a very serious father, who preferred backbreaking labor of Imperial Security to the blitz and glamour of social life. She was closer to Clint, mainly because she was often helping with the chaos of trying to raise three children at once in her free time. Why Clint's wife, a pretty but unremarkable woman, wasn't jealous of a startling beauty that was Nat, constantly hanging around Clint, was a mystery.

"That's right." Clint opened the door in front of Steve, followed him inside and carefully closed it behind them. "She's probably dissecting your Cet right now, and let's hope it's only a metaphor."

Steve nodded. Nat was always strictly professional, but attacking unborn children could cause fierceness in her, brought by an unrealized maternal instinct. At some point, due to unpleasant circumstances that vor-lady preferred not to speak of, she lost the ability to have children the natural way. A replicator bank was her only chance to ever have kids, and the attack on it she could see as an attack on one of her possible futures (for now, a red-haired Valkyrie in the rank of Commander had shown no signs of wanting to settle down).

"It's hard for me to judge, not knowing any details, but I'm inclined to believe the Consul. I've read a lot about their society, and children are valued with the same awe as here. Which is understandable, I guess, considering the work and all the hopes of the parents they put into their creation. He wouldn't."

"I don't know. In the time I know this guy, one thing I learned is that he's slippery as an eel. Actually, I called for you so you could help Natasha, you've spent the most time with him, so maybe, you have a certain way... He's allergic to fast-penta, naturally, and we can't hit a diplomat."

"The rest of the truth-serum drugs are likely useless due to the same reasons, I get it," Rogers nodded. "Lead the way. Let's see why the Consul of cultural affairs allows his servants to be so... uncultured."

***

As it turned out, Vorromanof didn't start dissecting the Cetagandan, but she was dangerously close to it. She reacted badly to interference at first, but, noticing the familiar faces, warmed up to them. Seeing them enter a tiny room with walls an unpleasant greyish green color, the Consul cheered up as well.

"Captain Rogers!" he exclaimed, almost with joy. "I was hoping to meet you, though under slightly more pleasant circumstances. This lovely lady..."

"Commander," Vorromanof corrected him with almost a growl.

"This lovely commander," Stark adjusted his words, "has been trying to convince me, for almost an hour, that just this night I've killed, or at the least hurt, a hundred of Barrayaran babies, by other people's hands. At the same time, she seems incapable of telling me, why would I do such a thing. Do you, by chance, have any idea?"

"Good evening, ghem-colonel," Steve gave an official greeting to the Consul, who was not grasping the gravity of the situation he found himself in. "I think you're aware that's not how interrogation works. Maybe, you could tell us instead about your and your servant's motivation?"

"Which one?" The Cetagandan turned serious at once. His face, with half-smudged face-paint he had no chance to fix, was a mask of grim determination. "When commander Vorromanof's... that's too many R's at once, sorry. When her colleagues dragged me out of bed, I didn't have a chance to make a headcount. But I'm pretty sure all of them are where they're supposed to be, which is the Embassy, and not a replicator bank."

Steve gave Natasha a questioning look. This is how it always went when you got involved in somebody else's business without getting a proper briefing first. Natasha showed him a photo on her comm. The screen was small, and identifying a paralyzed person wasn't easy sometimes – the facial muscles relaxed, twisting a usual expression, but...

"I don't know him personally, but that's the one who interrupted our last conversation."

Stark frowned and straightened even further.

"That's impossible. Jarvis couldn't be in that bank."

"Jarvis? Is he your trusted servant?" Steve recalled.

"Not quite," Stark sighed and asked, "can I clean myself up? There's a lady present."

Vorromanof snorted, showing how little she cared about a suspected spy's makeup, and how little her gender had anything to do with her duties. It wasn't quite clear how she managed to fit all that into a little sound, but everybody present got the message. 

"You're prepared to show your face without the face paint?" Steve asked, intrigued. "One of your countrymen wrote that that would be equivalent to showing up naked to dinner."

"There's a lady present," the Consul repeated with a smirk. "Even if she's bent on denying the importance of that. I'd rather be naked when dressed in something dirty and ill-fitting. And don't trust ghem-lord Rau's opinion blindly. He's good at telling tales, even if he wouldn't lie outright. I'll clean up, have a coffee, if your protocol would allow such a liberty, and I'll tell you everything I know. Which isn't much."

Steve gave Natasha another questioning look. She was, after all, in charge. She answered with a look of her own, confused, but not angry, and handed the consul a pack of wet wipes.

"This is going to take a while without the special products," Stark warned and, excusing himself, turned around, starting to torture his face with the wipes. About seven minutes later, apparently satisfied with the results of a tactile examination of his face, he turned around and gave them a less confident smile, obviously feeling the lack of the face paint. Natasha looked at him curiously: she's never seen a Cetagandan without their face paint before, and now it turned out a cleaned ghem-lord wasn't all that different from a vor-lord, if you don't take into account the hair.

Steve, on the other hand, froze.

He'd seen a face like this before – maybe not an exact copy, but one that was very much alike. Then again, being frozen and old might've blurred the memories.

In any case, long before, in his past life almost, he knew a guy with dark eyes and a cheeky grin, quite disheveled at first and with his hair styled with some product later. He smelled the same way, too: like a whole armory.

"What were you going to tell us?" asked Vorromanof, apparently finished with studying Stark.

"Well. Alright. You've detained Jarvis in the replicator bank. But he's not my servant, he's a ba."

"A ba?" Natasha exclaimed, surprised. "Aren't they servants of the haut?"

"Not quite," Stark looked at Steve, as if expecting a confirmation of his words from a Barrayaran. Captain Rogers' felt his lips move with an answer:

"Ba are the haut's servants, but they're more like genderless slaves with some privileges."

"Gross," Vorromanof concluded. "What's the difference, then?"

"I'm more interested in how a ghem-colonel would get a ba." Steve came to his senses, more or less, and was taking part in the conversation, scenarios of what could've happened racing through his mind.

"My mother gave it to me," confessed Stark. "She's an haut-lady, and the ba belonged to her long before she married my father. When I was coming to Barrayar, she decided that I could use it, it's quite smart and knows more about diplomatic relationships between the nations than I do, even if that knowledge is purely theoretical."

"So, you're saying that he couldn't have attacked a replicator bank?" Natasha clearly wasn't distracted by discussions of Cetagandan culture. She also wasn't prepared to call anyone, other than Barrayaran hermaphrodites, 'it'.

"The ba could do anything like that only on a direct and unambiguous order from its mistress. My mother didn't give it such an order."

"Did you?"

"Me?" Stark opened wide his beautiful eyes, particularly bright on a face devoid of face paint. "Even if it would somehow occur to me to do such a thing, I couldn't make Jarvis do that. I'm not its mistress."

"But Jarvis serves you."

"Well, I must admit, when I was filling out customs declaration, I decided not to complicate my and the officers' lives and just listed Jarvis among other servants. I couldn't find an entry in your standard form for living beings 'an inalienable living property, the right to use which was temporarily transferred to me'."

Natasha rolled her eyes, but sent Steve a sideways glance. He nodded.

"If this Henn Rau is to be believed, the ba do belong to their highborn masters and are completely loyal to them. If haut Mio D'Stark didn't give an order to sabotage the replicator bank, then it wasn't the ba. It was set up, to frame the Consul."

"My mother didn't give that order," repeated Stark, clearly losing his patience. "I still don't completely understand, what your Empire thinks of ours, but trust me, no lady, haut or ghem, would threaten children, especially unborn ones. It contradicts everything they live for and serve. One could, of course, decide to help, without asking first, but that's not what Jarvis is being blamed for, is it? What is it being blamed for, actually?"

"For nothing," Natasha sighed, tugging a lock of her red hair, nervously. "It's you who's being blamed. You did state in that declaration that you hold complete responsibility for all your servants, and any infraction and crime on their part are yours to answer for. That causes us certain trouble, of course, considering your diplomatic immunity, but we can work around that."

"Great," Stark nodded and crossed his hands, clearly showing he refuses to accept blame for anything. "What am I being blamed for, then?"

"That your servant, under your orders, infiltrated an imperial replicator bank closed for the night armed with vials of substances with proved teratogenic qualities and tried to break into the nutrient supply system to insert there what he brought in."

"And how did it get onto a presumably guarded site? Who gave him the codes, especially multi-level ones?" asked Clint, who, before now, seemed to be pretending a piece of furniture with a piercing gaze.

"That's a good question," Steve passed it onto Nat like a hot potato.

"The ghem-colonel himself could get those codes for his servant. He visited the bank before, during a welcoming tour. Although, how could you learn and write them down?"

"Bullshit. Even if you do believe that I'm a mentally unstable child killer," said Stark. "I have no codes. Even if your security personnel was typing them in, they did it discreetly enough that I haven't noticed. I haven't strayed away from the guide, and that's easy to prove if you look through security footage. All devices that, as we were told at the start of it, could affect the performance of replicators, I left at the entrance. More than that, where would my ba get teratogens? My luggage and that of all people accompanying me was thoroughly checked and re-checked, as was the mansion. And Jarvis couldn't buy them after our arrival, which is also easy to prove, all our movements and purchases are recorded. I'm sure your personnel already went through the records."

The Cetagandan stood up and started pacing the room to help himself think, probably.

"Maybe, it didn't buy the... potential weapon, but received it from the mastermind of the crime," Natasha suggested, not willing to give up the idea.

"And that mastermind was...?" The Consul raised his eyebrow. "Don't forget, only my mother could order the ba to commit that crime. I think a two meters’ tall woman with her hair sweeping the ground couldn't arrive on Barrayar unnoticed."

"I know it won't sound like what you want to hear from me," Steve addressed Natasha, while Clint was pinching the Cetagandan down with his glare, "but I think, neither the haut-lady, nor her son, nor their ba would hurt children... especially like that."

"True," Stark nodded. "The manner of the crime in question is also highly unpredictable. I think, one historically famous child that suffered from a teratogenic poisoning but compensated the disadvantages of that quite well later was enough for my compatriots to ever try anything like that again."

Clint nodded against his will. The legendary Count Vorkosigan, a half-meter tall hunchbacked hyperactive genius, was a good argument – an argument that, as was recently declassified, repeatedly meddled in the affairs of the Cetagandan Empire, ruining some plans of their ruler and, to everyone's surprise, getting a personal commendation for it from the Emperor and a medal 'for his services'. The Cetagandans were likely to fear another such person being born.

"Let's make some things clear: my mother's ba was discovered trying to hack replicator control systems by a guard? Did they paralyze Jarvis and call you?" Stark stared at the woman, theoretically responsible for this interrogation.

"I think that was exactly what happened," she gave a cautious answer, cursing herself in her thoughts for not doing such an obvious thing as checking the first responder. "The case was transferred to me two hours ago. I'll find out the details."

"That'd be great," the Consul nodded. "Because I think Jarvis was discovered by the replicators already paralyzed. It's the only theory, explaining why it didn't let me know about it, neither before the event, nor during."

He paused for a moment, then started pacing again, nervously gesturing with his hands.

"Who would even do such a thing? Abducting and setting up another person's ba? I've never thought of Barrayarans as barbarians, but this is..."

"This is exactly what you should keep thinking," said Natasha, all of a sudden, clearly considering Stark's words. "Let's say, the Cetagandans do care for children. Let's say, haut-ladies, keepers of the nation's gene pool, wouldn't even think of hurting other people's offspring. Let's say, the ba was set up by people who didn't recognize it for what it is. Who would benefit from it?"

"A lot of people," muttered Vorbarton, perfectly aware of all the people who wouldn't mind putting Cetaganda and Barrayar against each other and benefitting from the occurring chaos.

"That's hard to argue with," Stark was walking around the room, like the interrogation was over and he was a full participant of the discussion. "But I remembered your legendary Count for a reason. Somebody decided to repeat his history, only with a less positive ending."

"You're saying the person who set up your ba had something against Count Vorkosigan?" asked Natasha, surprised. "And they waited for so long?"

"If you're going to live for more than a century, 'long' becomes relative," Stark brushed off her doubts. "Do you have coffee? Alright, doesn't matter. Back at home, people appreciate multilevel revenge that touches upon not only the object of it, but their friends and relatives as well. An ideal revenge would wipe a Constellation from the Empire's sky. It can be prepared for decades and carried out by several generations of the family. But your Count did no harm to my family, and was generally well received by the Celestial Emperor..."

"He did quite a lot of harm to Jacksonians, though. A couple of times, actually. And his brother, as well," said Steve. "As far as I understand, the heads of many families of Jackson's Whole live for centuries, even though their way of extending their life is different from Cetagandan."

"And they have access to various teratogenic substances," confirmed Stark, making the same grimace he did before at the mention of Jackson's Whole. "And an unhealthy sense of humor. And they're quite vindictive."

"And you are trying to steer the conversation away from your possible involvement," added Vorromanof, to cover all bases.

"That's not wrong," Stark nodded. "But I am not guilty, and if you're not already sure of that, that's certainly what your gut tells you, isn't it? I just don't want to spend more time than I have to in this aesthetically displeasing room. May I ask what's being done to Jarvis? I'm not sure it can withstand being paralyzed all that well."

"It's here, guarded in the underground hospital," said Natasha. "It's fine. I think it makes sense to get its version of events as well..."

'And if it doesn't corroborate yours, you're in big trouble,' the commander's gaze was practically transmitting the message.

The ghem-colonel, as it turned out, was quite good at picking those up.

***

A serious young medic led the four of them to the detained. He was gazing at Stark with curiosity and fear, and at the Commander – with eyes basically brimming with awe.

"Here, Commander. He... she... it..."

"It," advised Stark, softly. "It's a ba. How's it doing?"

"It's fine," said the medic, clearly glad to have his internal conflict solved. "Based on the baseline measurements, at least. We couldn't perform any tests."

"Why? Did it resist?" asked Clint, surprised, since he knew perfectly well, that those hit with paralyzer lost if not the will, then at least the opportunity to resist for a few hours.

"Not quite. It told us we've no right to do that without its mistress's consent and the knowledge of the Consul," the medic looked directly at Stark.

"That's true," the man nodded. "You see, it's much closer to the haut race genetically than I am. A lot of changes in my genome were tested on it beforehand, which makes Jarvis almost my relative in my eyes, even though such attitude is unpopular back home. Trying to test its blood, you would interfere with my mother's work and... well, at the least, infringe upon her intellectual property," he smirked.

"Either way, it's conscious and you can talk to it," the medic briefly contemplated the possibility of many lawsuits from an haut-lady, then tried to shook it off and go back to familiar actions.

"That's what we came here for," confirmed Natasha.

Jarvis was half-leaning on the back of a couch, kept in place by something looking like a force field. Despite that, however, the ba didn't look like it was resisting, it didn't even move, just looked at everything with its curious cold blue eyes. It didn't resemble the Consul, or even his distant relative, it looked more like a part of Steve's family with its fair hair and blue eyes, its classically beautiful face and a vertical worry line between its eyebrows.

It cheered up upon noticing the Consul, almost beaming, but then looked away in guilt.

"It's okay, Jarvis. I know you didn't do anything, but... we'll have to prove it to them now. This is Commander Vorromanof, she's in charge of our unpleasant business. Could you remember how you ended up in the replicator bank and tell her?" Stark approached the couch and carefully sat down on the edge of it.

"Look at that, I didn't think Cetagandans could treat anyone this well, let alone someone they consider slaves," Clint whispered to Rogers. The consul heard however, and turned to look at them in indignation.

"Jarvis cared for me from the moment I was taken from the replicator bank. Its official position in the hierarchy has nothing to do with my attitude towards it. And if those who set it up knew this beforehand, they wouldn't dare."

"Sounds like a threat," remarked Natasha. "We don't have time for ethno cultural studies, though. Let's get back to business. Jarvis, right?"

"Yes, ma’am," said the ba, shortly, after receiving a go ahead from the ghem-lord. "My name is Jarvis. I've been serving haut-lady Mio D’Stark for almost a hundred years."

Steve raised his eyebrows. The ba didn't look old at all. Then again, if genetically it was closer to the haut... Then again, even on Barrayar, there were people who didn't really age, like Colonel Fury, for example.

"Did your mistress give your orders before you accompanied her son to Barrayar?"

"None that would hurt your Empire," answered Jarvis, cautiously.

"Let me be the judge of that. So?"

"I was told not to let To- ghem-lord Stark out of my sight. To help him to the best of my abilities. To send her weekly reports, and to contact her immediately in any extenuating circumstances. That's it."

"So, she didn't order you to hurt Barrayaran children?" asked Natasha, more as a formality, than actually considering the Cetagandans still guilty.

"No!" The ba showed strong emotion for the first time since the start of the interrogation. "Neither my mistress, nor ghem-lord Stark gave me such orders. And I wouldn't do it – it's beyond the scope of my duties and interests."

"Alright. Describe the evening that preceded your arrest at the Imperial replicator bank."

"Since?"

"Since half past eight," said Natasha, after consulting her comm.

"Alright. At this time I was, as usual, delivering invitations to the Embassy."

"Who was inviting whom?"

"Ghem-lord Stark invites people he considers interesting practically every evening, to join him for dinner, tea or admiring constellations," the ba said, without any second thought, making Clint laugh quietly and Natasha to snort again. "Ladies, as a rule."

"As a rule!" Clint whispered and rolled his eyes. "I told you to stay away from him."

"Whatever you think of my behavior, I clearly stated my intentions in the invitations," said Stark, calmly. He clearly was of an opinion that everything his ears caught was intended for him. "If my guests' behavior went beyond the pre-considered boundaries, it was of their will. By the way, Captain... You've never accepted – or even answered – any of my invitations. Do you find me so unpleasant?"

"What are you talking about?" answered Steve, surprised. "I've never received any."

"Jarvis?" Stark looked at the ba that answered with his own uncomprehending gaze.

"All the invitations were delivered to their addresses. I left cards and letters to the servants, if I was met by any, otherwise, I used mailboxes. Captain Rogers lives in an apartment building for officers. There's no concierge or servants there, so I always put those in the mailbox."

"I check my mail every day, and I can assure you, I had no messages from you," Steve spread his hands.

"Hmm," Stark frowned and asked, "what about the smell? Did the rest of the letters smell the usual way?"

Natasha looked clearly surprised but didn't say anything, letting Steve recall it. The discussion had nothing to do with her questions, but the Cetagandans looked like it was important.

"I think so... Although, one time Singling sent a catalog, and I remember being surprised they don't just show off the new weapon models, but let you smell them, too."

"Then, the ba used the right mailbox, but somebody stole the invitations," Stark announced, clearly irritated. "My perfume smells of weapons, including the one that's used for sprinkling letters, as per tradition. Somebody really didn't want the two of us talking more than couldn't be avoided. Continue, Jarvis."

"I delivered three invitations to the ladies and headed towards Captain Rogers' house," said the ba. "On previous evenings, that was the place I started at, but this time I decided to go there last, since the Captain was ignoring the invitations. The hall was dark, so I didn't go to the mailboxes immediately and started looking for a switch to turn the light on. I don't remember, what happened next. When I regained consciousness, a man ordered me to stay still and put my hands up. I did that, but he still stunned me. And here I am."

"And here you are," repeated Stark, deep on thought. "Commander, captains, you know I had no opportunity to conspire with Jarvis. Now do you believe me?"

"I guess," cautiously agreed Vorromanof. "It's a curious thing: while your ba was following the schedule, nobody touched it, but the moment it strayed from it..."

"I think, the first time I was stunned by people who used to steal invitations addressed to Captain Rogers," said the ba. "They'd have to have been coming after me to be able to accomplish that, right? So, straying away from the normal sequence of events, I had a chance to meet them. It's a pity it was dark and I couldn't see anyone."

"Doesn't matter. What's important is that you're okay, and that you didn't do anything wrong with the replicators. I don't think they seriously expected you to, I'm guessing the point was to get me arrested, and still..." Stark snorted.

"Why don't you invite people using comms, like a normal person?" asked Vorbarton, seemingly out of nowhere.

"It's a tradition," Stark shrugged. "Personal invitations are written by hand and delivered in their original state, no photographing, scanning or sending via comm."

"So, maybe somebody needed a sample of your handwriting?" suggested Clint. "Or your perfume?"

"Or a sample of invitation itself that could be used to lure me to someplace else," added Steve. "What was in the yesterday's, by the way?"

"An invitation to spend the evening drinking tea and talking," answered Stark, honestly.

"Without the addition of scopolamine this time, I hope?" The Captain smiled, while Clint and Natasha gave him worried glances.

"That was the plan... Oh, come on, it has no more of an effect on you, than it does on me."

"True. It does ruin the taste somewhat, though." Steve gave him an even bigger smile. "I'm still owed an answer, Consul. I think now's the time for me to ask my question."

"Go ahead, then. Your territory – your rules." The Cetagandan spread his hands. "If you think that all the people present should hear the answer."

That somewhat dissuaded Steve, who was just about to ask, if the last ghem-lord Stark had a spare identity named Walter, 'just Volt, for friends', who pretended to be a slightly mad but genius scientist from Escobar.

Noticing his hesitation, Stark smirked.

"That's what I thought. Let's leave your question for another time, then. Maybe, you'll indulge me after all and come drink tea with me?"

"Maybe. Although, it would be better to send the next invitation by comm. Let's ignore tradition for the sake of safety."

"Wait," Natasha sighed. "This is all well and good, but somewhere in the capital, there's at least one criminal stealing officers' mail, kidnapping the Embassy's servants and organizing attacks. You can't just go home and pretend like everything's alright."

"What do you suggest?" Clint looked at the Cetagandans, and then gave another glance to Steve. "Putting up warnings on all posts warning citizens that THEY are among us?"

"No, that would be stupid." Vorromanof completely ignored humor in line of duty. "We should try to understand what they were expecting to gain from this."

"A diplomatic scandal and me being sent away," answered Stark without missing a beat.

"Then that's what we should give them. Officially, your Emperor will receive a note of protest, and you will be banned from Barrayar with all your servants and the ba."

"And unofficially?" relentlessly pursued Stark.

"And unofficially you won't be banned from Barrayar, but you will have to leave for your own safety. And I think, Steve should come with you. If the criminals have plans for him, that'll ruin those. Besides, he can keep an eye on you and share the information with us. You can't expect us just to let you go either which way."

"No, that would've been unwise and unprofessional. But in what capacity will the Captain be keeping an eye on me? If I'm not mistaken, he's an Imperial Courier. I don't think that role grant him such authority," the Cetagandan stopped talking, noticing unkind smiles on Natasha's and Clint's faces.

"Trust me, some – only some – Imperial Couriers have enough authority to declare war and peace. They try not to do it, of course, not to infringe on the Emperor's rights," answered the Commander.

"Let's hope there'll be no need for that on this occasion as well," Steve sighed, although inside, his soul was singing and dancing from joy. Finally, he had some real work and not just withering away in the office.

"Hm... I suppose I have to concede," Stark spread his hands again. "Although, I hardly can complain, this is all very exciting. We now have even more things to discuss over tea, don't we, Captain?"

Steve couldn't really argue about that.

***

Supposedly banning a foreign dignitary with shame turned out to be easier than Steve expected. Only a few people knew he wasn't really banned, just hidden nearby, and the rest were satisfied with the official version, which, almost per tradition, it seemed, for Cetagandan politics, included a tragic story involving poisoning. This time, however the Consul himself wasn't a victim, as this role was allocated to his apparently numerous lovers. (The girl who played the role wasn't actually one of them, and was instead Natasha's colleague). Nobody mentioned unsuccessful attempt to sabotage the replicator bank, and Stark was quite grateful for that: even with his appreciation for intrigue, he didn't want to draw on himself the rage of present and future parents.

The ship that Cetaganda sent after their disgraced diplomat was small and fast. It didn't spot a lot of weapons, the engineer obviously expected a pilot to be able to steer away the ship from any enemy fire in a blink of an eye. The pilot was supplied, as well, but Steve didn't get a chance to meet him, or any other members of the crew, for that matter. Everybody was busy and didn't really care for talking to a Barrayaran.

"Welcome to the Cetagandan Empire," said Stark, half-serious, once they passed the airlock and appeared inside the ship. "Watch your head."

Steve nodded. The ship registered at Rho Ceta, indeed, was the Empire's territory, and Steve was prepared to act accordingly, with caution and diplomacy.

"It's a little cramped," noticed the ghem-lord, looking all around himself. 

As the rest of the servants left for their quarters, the ba remarked: "You designed the ship yourself. Speed is more important than comfort. That being a quote."

"Of course, it is more important," Stark nodded. "But that fact's not going to stop me from grumbling. Let's have a tour, Captain. We'll have to spend too much time in this tin can, either way."

"I don't think we will, actually. Natasha and Clint will find the criminals quickly, especially if we're going to help them from here," objected Steve.

"We're going to, of course," agreed Stark, leading him to the bridge. "For that to be possible, though, I think we have to come clean to each other. You suspect me, I suspect you, and that's a distraction from our real enemies."

"I agree." On their way, Steve glanced briefly at unoccupied cabins that looked no bigger than a shoebox, but with its own shower each, at the compact mess-room and, finally, at the rather big in comparison tactical control room that occupied almost half of the whole space of the ship. "Did you really design all of this?"

"Not quite. I was finishing it. The first designer got unexpectedly caught misappropriating the funds." Stark snorted, "Which is another piece of proof that we're all just humans. I think this happens quite a lot in your fleet, as well. Tea?"

The tea was prepared by the same ba, who made sure to show the Captain he wasn't adding any drugs this time. While they waited, Stark sat down and reminded Steve with a sigh:

"Ask your question, Captain."

Steve sat against him, gave a once-over to the visibly tense Cetagandan and asked, feeling like an idiot:

"What was your father's name? I mean, can I hear his full name?"

"Of course. Howard Anthony Walter Stark," answered the Cetagandan, raising his eyebrows. He was clearly expecting something different. "I was named after him and my grandfather, so, Anthony Edward. Two names. Almost like yours."

"Walter," repeated Steve, feeling strangely vindicated. "So, I wasn't mistaken."

"What do you mean? Oh, thank you, Jarvis. Sit with us, have some tea," called Stark after the ba that was preparing to leave.

"That you look like him."

"That's to be expected. I told you, my mother tried to make me look as much like him, as she could. But you knew my father. So I was digging in the right direction."

Steve accepted a cup of tea and nodded. The Cetagandan was digging like a mole, and in a completely right direction. Really, it was strange they managed to at least slow him down a bit.

"If you knew him, that means you're at least ninety. And your dad took no part in that unpleasant story, didn't he? He really died in the line of duty, just really long ago, in your second conflict with us... or during the Great War?"

"No, he missed it," Steve shook his head. "It's true, I was born ninety years ago," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, for the first time since he was brought back to life. "I wasn't born yet, when he left and... didn't come back."

"My condolences," Stark replied, his voice short but seemingly sincere. "I won't ask how old you are, cryosleep makes passing any lengths of time possible. But how did a guy from Barrayar meet a ghem-lord and not try to kill him?"

"I didn't know he was a ghem-lord," Steve smirked, remembering the old story. "If I knew... There was more truth than it seems in that first personnel file you found on me. I did try to follow in my father's footsteps, but that didn't really work. I was born before my time, I was weak and sickly. If I could pass the theoretical exams for the Academy with relative ease, as for the physical ones... I didn't really excel at that."

"Before your time?" asked Stark, surprised. "Was your replicator damaged?"

"Actually, back then, all the children on Barrayar were born the natural way," reminded him Steve. "Now we have replicator banks everywhere, of course, like the one that Jarvis was unlucky to find himself in, but even now, the higher percentage of children are still born naturally."

"Horrible," Stark winced. "Although, quite understandable from a historical point of view. So, you were born as a living proof of everything wrong with the natural reproduction. And?"

"And, after another unsuccessful attempt to apply to the Academy, this weird guy contacted me. He said he was from Escobar, but his accent was not. He told me his name was Abraham, and that he was working on a revolutionary medical procedure," Steve sipped his tea, thinking to himself that this time it tasted even better. "I had nothing to lose, so I agreed. As it turned out, Abraham was in charge of... let's say, biochemical part of the experiment. There was also a technical one, and that was in the hands of your father. He looked just like you, only with short hair and no face paint. He introduced himself as Walter, suggested I call him Volt, and I quickly realized, why."

"Oh, I can imagine," Stark rolled his eyes. "My father's relationship with electricity was always more than close. So, I'm guessing, a duet of two crazy scientist succeeded at what they set out to do?"

"Yes," Steve nodded and tried not to squirm. An already piercing gaze of the Cetagandan turned almost palpable, as if trying to size up and dismantle every piece of him. "I wasn't aware of the details of their work, but you can see the result for yourself. And as soon as the result was there, strange accidents started happening around the lab. First, some guys from Security appeared and announced that I was accepted into the Academy, to keep an eye on me, among other things, of course. Then, they said the scientists shouldn't publish their results, but to quietly surrender it to the state. But which one? Why not the one, whose citizen they unlawfully experimented on? I don't know if they agreed."

"I see," Stark fell silent and then, surprising Steve, suggested, "should we drop the formalities? It seems odd, addressing my father's old friend in such a detached fashion."

"Well, alright. How do you suggest I call you, then?"

"I think 'Tony' would suffice. Being cold Anthony makes me feel like I'm a child again, who's about to be reprimanded for something."

"Alright, Tony. I told you my story, or at least the basics of it."

"Not quite. I still don't know how you ended up in a cryochamber."

"Yes. I don't like those memories. That day, somebody successfully attacked us, I still don't know, who. Certainly not our people. They shot Doctor Abraham, and while I was chasing the killer, somebody trashed the lab, Volt disappeared, but not before sending me a message. He warned that it was in my best interests to get the protection those guys from the Security promised, since people who were far less pleasant or burdened by morals got interested in me. Or, at least, in my body, but the outcome was the same. That's exactly what I planned on doing, only I haven't managed to reach them in time: somebody made a hole in me. As far as I figured out, dead me was as useful as alive, when it concerned their studies. So, they tried to kill me and snatch my body, but the Barrayaran people got to me first."

"And that's where the cryochamber comes in, and decades of waiting till medicine catches up enough so they could heal you," Tony nodded in understanding. "Well, I'm glad it did. And that the people looking after the chamber were, as you say, burdened by morals. They could decide it wasn't worth it, after all."

Stark leaned back, stretched his legs and pulled the strand of hair that was falling on his face all the time.

"My mother is an haut-lady," he started, "of course, she lost the status after she married a ghem-lord, but genetically speaking, she's an haut-lady, and her behavior speaks to it as well. After my father died, she... I don't quite understand it, but I think, everything that reconciled her with the loss of those rights and privileges died with him."

"What about you?" asked Steve. "I don't know, how it works in your Empire, but here people generally care for their children. And you said it yourself, that she wanted you to resemble your father more than you resembled her."

"I'm almost fifty," answered Stark, sounding somewhat surprised. "I've been a separate being for a long time, not really connected to my mother by anything other than the name and our heritage. I can't be her anchor."

"Alright, it already dawned on me I need to read about Cetaganda for another hundred years before I understand how people there live and think," Steve sighed. "So, your mother was sad and lonely. Why didn't she go back to the Heavenly Garden? And what does it have to do with Barrayar?"

"You can't go back to the Heavenly Garden," Tony sipped his tea and hummed in appreciation. The ba, sitting quietly in the corner, felt itself slightly relaxing. "That's just not possible. Or at least, it wasn't. My mother decided that, since ghem-lords who crawled out of their skin to be useful to the Empire get rewarded with the haut wives, by being as useful, she can reclaim her status and her place there."

"And you decided to help her?"

"Not as much decided... and not as much to help. Let's say, I'm her eyes, ears and hands. I'm much more used to being the brains, so this is somewhat of a downgrade for me. But if an haut-lady wants something done, ghem-lords nod and do it. That's stronger than any personality."

Steve fell silent, his gaze going from Tony to Jarvis.

"Why couldn't Jarvis be her eyes and ears? That seems more appropriate, considering how loyal they are to their mistresses..."

"Because being completely loyal excludes free will and the ability to make decisions," answered the ba, "I'm a good executor, Captain. But I'm not quite capable of quickly reacting to circumstances. I'm not programmed for that."

"I see." The ba seemed to Steve even stranger, than any other Cetagandans. "So, your mother wants her status back. And she sent you to Barrayar to...?"

"To find proof to what the last consul discovered."

"The one who got poisoned? What did he learn?"

"To keep it short, there's been a rumor circulating the galaxy for quite some time that Barrayarans learned to augment genetic faults in their children not while they were being constructed, but after the fact. It may not sound as important to you, but for the Empire..."

"Well, yeah, genetic construction for you is its own art from... What do you call it? Bio aesthetics?"

"Exactly. The fate of our Empire depends on it, however pretentious it may sound. It's the foundation of our society. The best genetic constructs and samples will become meaningless, if it's going to be possible to have a child from whomever and then fix all the imperfections after they become obvious. Including someone's genetic elements into the haut genome, our highest reward, by the way, will also stop making any sense. I can't explain everything, but trust me: genetic manipulation of an already formed human can completely destroy Cetaganda. So, it's quite understandable it causes such fear in those who know about it. The last consul learned there's a person serving on Barrayar who already went through the procedure."

"So, your mother wanted you to find the living proof of that and... what?"

"And bring them with me. For a living demonstration, so to speak. We could study them, to borrow the technology, or, if they're really unique, we could destroy them and everybody who knows about them, to keep things the way they are," the expression of the Cetagandan's face, for a change not covered by face paint, with only a small pattern on his cheekbone, went sharp.

"You do understand we're talking about me, right?" clarified Steve, starting to feel uneasy. He was on a Cetagandan ship that could, technically, drop him on Eta Ceta, for a successful completion of the haut-lady's and her son's plan. "I'm not really a fan of either option."

"I get it," Tony nodded, "I'm not either. Besides, if I understood what you were saying correctly, it wasn’t Barrayarans who figured out how to bring any genetic material to perfection. That's already good. If father published his research back on the home planet, he would be either rewarded again or... executed. I don't know. I think, he didn't either, and that's why he preferred working outside the borders of the Empire. As for his partner..." Stark opened a photo on his comm. "I know it's not him, but does he look any similar?"

Steve looked at the screen, frowned and nodded. The dark-haired man on the picture could be Abraham's younger brother or his older son.

"Then, it's even more interesting," Tony gave him a smile that was positively predatory. "It's not Abraham, although the adaptation makes quite a lot of sense. It's Aram Durona, from Jackson's Whole Durona group. He disappeared long time ago."

Steve tried to remember what was known about that group. Lily Durona, a genius medic, was created in labs of House Rioval, then later she joined House Fell and repeatedly cloned herself. All her female clones were named after flowers, and male – after birds. All of them were genius in their own ways, specializing in different areas of medicine. Aram Durona was, apparently, a genius genetics researcher. Why did he leave the group? Or was he working under their orders all that time? There were rumors circulating, that for the last forty years Durona's group lived on Escobar, their research not at all contributing to the glory of Jackson's Whole. But if Doctor Abraham left them before the group was sold and moved, who was he working for?

"And again, that gave me more questions than answers," Steve sighed. "Alright. Let's say, you bring me to your homeland, lay me at your mother's feet. What will it change? I'm not just a creature enhanced with unknown technology, I'm a project of her husband, who was, I'm guessing, declared deceased even before it all happened. How else would he get ahold of an Escobar secret identity and hide from the eye of your security services?"

"Yes, that complicates things," Tony finished his tea and started tapping the side of his cup with his well-manicured nails. "It would be much easier if you were a Jacksonian or even a Barrayaran project. It would be even better if your enhancements were explained by some technology stolen from the Star Crèche, that's an haut genetic bank, if you don't know. My mother would be guaranteed a place by Emperor's right hand. Now... I don't know, what to do."

"Me neither," Steve nodded. "But there's another issue, beside your mother's project. Somebody tried to sabotage you and to possibly kidnap me. And it was clearly not her. Who would benefit from it?"

"Somebody who's really interested in bringing their body to perfection," said the ba. "They don't have to necessarily be interested in bringing down the Empire's foundations, they just have to wish to be strong and healthy, don't they? They learned about your interest in the Captain and got scared that they'll lose the opportunity to get him. Perhaps, they panicked and, when I stumbled upon their people, decided to force their situation, using, as they thought, your servant."

Tony turned and looked at Jarvis with his unblinking dark eyes.

"Don't tell me again you're incapable of making your own decisions and just a humble executor," he said, with a mix of admiration and anger in his voice. "Truly, why do we only think about the global scale? It suffices to just be old and weak to wish to repeat my father's and his partner's success with you... not to have any other options... But why not? Because the clone that was already prepared for the brain transplant got killed and the Betan rejuvenation treatment only exists in fiction," Tony's thoughts were flowing quickly, as were his words, almost with no pauses, like a tongue twister. "The old Baron Fell is not just old, he's ancient and just about to become history. He would grab any lifeline, especially one as promising as you. You need to contact that lovely lady, and I – my mother," finished Stark, almost jumped off his sofa and rushed to the bridge.

***

The Consul's ship was hovering next to a wormhole tunnel leading to Komarr, so Steve had an opportunity to talk to Natasha directly, even if there's been some delay. Stark, on the other hand, had to compile a long message that would get compressed and sent towards Eta Ceta through a series of tunnels, so he was suffering, trying to describe the news of the last couple of days and his own revelations into appropriate poetic form. Steve watched him for a while, sympathizing with the poor man having to count his syllables, and sat in front of a terminal. A couple of lines of code, two redirections and the Commander's stern face appeared on the screen.

"Steve. Did something happen?"

"Seems like it. Stark, his ba and I had a conversation, and we think the person trying to ruin our lives is..." Steve fell silent, trying to figure out how to say 'an old sick man obsessed with the desire to live forever' and not to betray his secrets, "well, the most likely suspects are Jacksonians working for the old Baron Fell."

"Baron Fell? Nobody heard from him in decades. He doesn’t make a lot of noise, just his weapons..."

"That's why he's quiet," Steve nodded, "he's not dumb enough to go around with a banner 'I have a plan to set up two Empires against each other'."

"Alright, suppose it's true. Nobody other than Clint and myself know you're escorting the Cetagandan. We'll set up an ambush in your flat and try to catch him in the act. I'll be in contact."

"So will I. By the way, we're jumping to Komarr and then to Rho Ceta after all, so, no need to raise the alarm."

"Well, at least you warned us," Nat gave him a wry smile. "Good luck. I hope, the ghem-lord won't drive you crazy. I would absolutely lose my mind, if I had to share a small space with someone who looks like a demon from a play."

"He likes you, too," Steve chuckled and disconnected the call.

Stark finished suffering over his poem, admired the screen filled to the brim with classic hexameter with an almost classic beginning of 'Sing, Haut Mio, the rage', compressed the letter and sent it to his mother, clearly hoping it was her turn to suffer. 

"Well? Did your colleagues take your thoughts about Jackson's Whole seriously?"

"Quite so," Rogers nodded. "They'll try to catch the mercenaries trying to catch me, the rest is just a question of adding some drugs. They'll tell everything they know. What are our plans?"

"I would offer you to stay at my estate on Eta Ceta, but I'm afraid, my mother's wish to study you will overcome her common sense. I wonder if she had any idea that my father, who wasn't dead at all, took part in making you what you are? The more I think about it, the more I'm inclined to believe my parents were leading me by the nose my whole life. Not the most pleasant understanding."

"I can imagine," Steve nodded. "So, if not to Eta Ceta, where can we go? Of course, the smartest choice would be to stay here, so we could contact Barrayar instantly, but..."

"But it's boring as hell. Not to mention cramped as hell. Alright, a compromise: we stay here till the next communication from them, consider the news and then decide."

"Sounds good," Steve agreed, even though it wasn’t like he had any other choice. "Can I have more tea? And something to eat? Having the perfect physical form is all well and good, but it does require following a certain regime."

"How terrible," Tony shuddered and sent Jarvis in search of food and something harmless to entertain themselves with.

Steve went back to his cabin, sat down on the sofa and lost himself in thought. He couldn't stop thinking about the man desperately clinging to his life. Could he be the one behind that attack at the lab? Was it possible that Doctor Abraham's death wasn't accidental, but a message to the others from the Durona group, so they wouldn't even think about fleeing?

Was it possible that Volt was still alive?

Lost in all of these not quite unhappy, but definitely worrisome thoughts, he didn't even notice himself eating something (Jarvis remarked, with a sigh, that while eating sweet tarts with spicy sauce was definitely a bold choice, it could've been taken the wrong way in a polite society).

"Captain?" the ba asked, its normally level voice slightly more worried. "Could you help me?"

"Of course," Steve brushed away his thoughts and looked at Jarvis. "What is it?"

"Ghem-lord Stark requires extraction from the shower."

"Did he lock himself in and refuses to leave?" Steve asked, surprised.

"Not quite, he's stuck and can't get out. The door got jammed, voice commands aren't working, and the emergency sensor short-circuited after water got into it."

"You have water showers here? Not ionic ones?" 

"Ghem-lord Stark appreciates certain level of comfort," the ba shrugged. "This ship is equipped with state of the art system of water and air circulation."

"But the sensors are, apparently, not that great," the Captain got up and followed Jarvis to Stark's cabin.

From behind the thin bathroom door, he could hear the water running and Stark's muffled curses.

"I'll find that bloody Justin, whatever hole he's hiding in, and I'll improve his phenotype so much his own Constellation won't recognize him! What kind of engineer is he? If he's allowed to have children, we'll have an army of bloody idiots on our hands! I'll have that red haired bastard look the way he thinks! Jarvis? Are you here? Get me out of here, it's terribly wet and cold!"

"Cold?" asked the ba, surprised. "Did the thermostat stop working as well?"

"What do you think?" Stark's voice sounded slightly weird. In a moment, Steve understood that his teeth were chattering. "I did a really good job, too. Figured out to check for mistakes in the undercarriage of the ship, but didn't think to test the showers!"

"It just didn't occur to you that somebody could be so careless as to not install waterproof electrics," answered Jarvis. "I couldn't open the door from the outside, but I brought Captain Rogers. If what you think about him is true, he should be able to mechanically overpower the door's resistance."

"I hope so," called Stark, somberly, from the inside. "Steve, the lock is electrical. And it is somehow fine, unlike all the rest! Damn Justin!" Steve didn't know that Cetagandan, but he could understand Stark's outrage. "The holding force is about three hundred kilograms. Can you tear it open?"

"Three hundred? Easily. But I'm afraid, the handle will give up faster than the lock."

"Well, try it, at least." The Cetagandan behind the door clearly started sniffing. "If it doesn't work, bring a cutter. I'll write him a review when I get out of here! The damn idiot will be paying fees for the rest of his life!"

Steve positioned himself next to the door, grabbed the bulkhead next to it with one hand and the weakly looking handle with another, breathed out and pulled.

The lock and the handle gave up at the same time, so, with deafening racket and clang of the door, now lopsided, a wet and blue-ish ghem-lord fell out.

"I'll kill him," was the first thing out of his mouth. "If that wasn't an attempt on my life, I don't know anything. Jarvis, I need a thermal blanket, now. And tea. And the head of this..."

"The head with other parts of his body are out of my reach. I'll provide the blanket and the tea," Jarvis nodded, with dignity, and, clearly considering his mission of extracting Tony from the shower complete, disappeared.

Steve looked Stark over and said:

"Hypothermia. How long were you there? Did you want to get out yourself?"

While saying this, he was already taking off his jumpsuit. While staying with a ghem-lord on a tiny ship could be fine, staying with a ghem-lord who had a cold... Well, Steve could think of many better perspectives.

"At first, yes, while the water was still warm. Then I tried to call Jarvis, but emergency call panel wasn't working. When he finally heard me yelling for him, turned out, the ba, while marvelous workers otherwise, are not really strong. Why are you undressing? So I wouldn't be upset being the only one naked?"

"No, to warm you up faster." Steve, now only in his underwear, started trying to force the ghem-lord into the jumpsuit. "Your pride will be your undoing. You could've called earlier... Yeah, I know I'm boring, don't waste your breath telling me that."

"I never thought you were boring," declared Tony, with his teeth chattering and clearly too cold to resist any of Steve's ministrations. "But this won't do any good, other than making you cold and getting your suit wet. Besides, I have my own clothes here."

"Don't be stupid," interjected Steve. "Honestly, I just feel sorry for your capes. My jumpsuit, however, will be perfectly fine. You can consider it personal. I was cold, once, for a really long time, and since then, I... Jarvis, finally. Give me the blanket, find me a spare jumpsuit and, another thing, is there ethanol on board? Pure?"

"I think we can look for it in the engine room," said the ba, after some thinking. "Why would we have it, though? And why do you need it?"

Stark, pushed into the jumpsuit and wrapped in the blanket, started shivering even harder.

"He was cold once," grumbled the Cetagandan, pulling the blanket up to his ears. "Of course, seventy years in a cryochamber, anybody would get cold, even people on Kibou-daini wouldn't like it..."

"Look for it," Steve grabbed Stark's suitcase, still unpacked, from the wardrobe, put it on his elbow, took shivering Stark in his hands and carried him across the ship, accompanied by the chatter of his teeth, to the cabin that he claimed as his own while they were wandering through space. Those smart heads were always a problem – they didn't ever sit well on their owner’s shoulders, making their experiments go wrong, getting them attacked by showers... The ba followed Steve like a hungry komodo dragon stalking its prey. "We can rub alcohol into his skin. And add a spoon of it into his tea. That'll save him from getting pneumonia," explained Steve to the curious ba.

"Putting alcohol into tea?" the ba asked, horrified.

"Yeah," grumbled Tony, "even truth serum is better than that, it doesn't spoil the taste."

"You're way too attached to those drugs," complained Steve, putting Stark down on the couch and covering him with a second blanket. "Jarvis, stop whining and go get tea."

Then, it dawned on him that he just casually started commanding other person's servant, and he looked at Stark, expecting him to be angry. But he saw nothing like that. Jarvis, too, didn't express any protest, apparently, Barrayar's usual 'stand there and do what I say' style of commanding was working like a charm.

With Jarvis' help, they turned Stark into a cocoon and pushed a cup of tea into his hands. At the last second, Steve did change his mind about putting alcohol into it, it didn't seem safe enough for him, and instead poured a few drops of cognac.

"Where did you get that?" asked Stark. "Do you always bring cognac on your journeys?" he inquired, after sniffing the air.

"Not really," Steve grinned. "Ethanol doesn't work on me. At least, not in the way that it does on my compatriots. But it can still warm me up. And cognac has an additional advantage of a nice smell."

Tony sniffed the tea again, unconvinced, muttered something about berry bugs and canaries, for some reason, but did risk taking a sip.

"It's disgusting, but drinkable," he concluded.

"Well, drink it, then," said Steve and poured some for himself. Stark's teeth stopped chattering, and his eyes got a certain glint in it, which was a positive change in Steve's book. "I hope nothing else bad happens today."

Then, Steve noticed that he was sitting practically naked – if you disregard the long skin-tight underwear he wore under his jumpsuit that was called under-armor, for some bizarre reason – next to the ghem-lord who was covered up to his ears, and, excusing himself, he reached for a spare jumpsuit.

"No, it's fine," Tony snorted. "I enjoyed it, actually. I don't understand the purpose of this sock over your body, but it does accentuate your muscles quite nicely."

"Well, it's improper," answered Steve, shortly, perfectly aware that were they to keep discussing these topics for a few more minutes, his face will go up in flames. He always blushed easily, like any blond person, and really disliked it. "It's for thermal regulation. And to keep from putting the jumpsuit over my naked body, it's not easy to wash. I remember, that one time we sat up to our waists in dirt..." he cut himself off, "that's probably boring to you."

"No, why, keep going," the Cetagandan, too pleased with himself, almost purred. He was intrigued by Rogers' unusual response to a basically innocent remark, and didn't want to lose a chance to listen to stories about the life of a modest Imperial Courier.

"Well, it was really dirty," said Steve, resigned to his fate. Swamps on Barrayar are really something, I must admit. We spent four days there, and at the end of it we couldn't distinguish anymore between a comrade and a pile of dirt. Vorbarton had to ditch his jumpsuit, something chewed it through, and if not for this thing," he pulled the thing but durable fabric on his shoulder, "who knows what gnats would do to him. We're very serious about boundaries and safety on Barrayar."

The ghem-lord's face, moments before curious and pleased, got twisted by a sudden bout of fury. Whether this was the alcohol that he wasn't used to, or the stress or everything at once, the effect was sudden and somewhat terrifying.

"Yeah," he snorted, angry. "Boundaries and safety! Meanwhile, any terrorist can go to the officers' home and nobody will stop them."

"Look at me," Steve, surprised by the outburst, spread his hands, and the cabin suddenly seemed much smaller, "what good is the officer who can't even protect himself?"

"Oh, so this is just an interesting way to keep your officers battle-ready and in shape? Well, you should've said, I would've kept Jarvis in the Embassy, it's not a Barrayaran officer, after all."

"What are you so angry about?" Steve felt himself getting irritated. "What help was Jarvis when you're almost drowned in your shower, with no enemies around?"

"I wouldn't drown; I would just freeze." Stark squirmed under his blanket, the last one making an eerie rustling noise. "And yeah, it did help me, it figured out to go look for you. So what, if a ba can't pull with a force of three hundred kilos, it can be left to Jackson's Whole? Those are lovely beliefs to have."

"I didn't say anything like that," bit back Steve. "And I didn't mean anything like that. How do you manage to always choose to understand the most twisted and ugly things from everything I say, that I didn't even mean? I only wanted to say that a Barrayaran officer is not a damsel in distress that has to be guarded like the apple of your eye. He's the one who has to protect peace and order!"

"When why wasn't it an officer protecting peace and order of a replicator bank that has, if I'm not mistaken, a word Imperial in its name? One would think that means 'terribly important’. And you put there a lonely guy with a paralyzing gun!" insidiously asked the ghem-lord, only confirming Steve's statement that he only listened to the most unpleasant of your words and had a habit of pushing you nose-first into it.

From behind the door, they could hear a sigh and retreating steps. It seemed, Jarvis came for new instructions and instead got something entirely different.

"Because we're not used to dealing with maniacs who would hurt children!" cried Steve, his eyes burning. "As you aren't, I hope. No matter what's going on, on Barrayar nobody would think of doing anything like that..." Then, Steve fell silent for a moment. "Alright, Miles Vorkosigan is an example of the opposite. But that was a tragic accident, not a malicious intent against the child."

"Indeed, that was malicious intent against the father, perfectly fine by Barrayaran standards," Tony smiled, suddenly resembling a painted demon, even with his face unusually devoid of any paint. "I suppose, we shouldn't even try to recall what Yuri the Mad did, after all, three generations have passed..."

Steve felt that another second of this and he'll crush his fist right into Stark's well-groomed temple. He got up so fast that the move sent something flying to the floor and said, the words clipped:

"Of course, it's much worse than pretending to be dead to your own family, like your dad did? That's a lovely Cetagandan tradition, you can just feel how much ghem-lords care about their families!"

He was so furious he didn't even notice Stark's face going white, and when he did, he immediately felt sorry for what he said. But it was too late.

"I'm sorry," said Steve, quickly, watching Stark's face change color, as if he was a chameleon, getting alternatively white and red without the help of any face paint. "Tony, please. I didn't mean any of this. I didn't..." He realized how pointless it was, trying to change anything with his words, the stress Stark just went through and his anger didn't allow him to look calmly at the situation.

So, instead Steve grabbed him and pressed Stark to his chest, ignoring surprised kicks and jabs. He would kick himself, if he could.

"My father," said Tony, quietly, abandoning his attempts to get free, "whether he's dead or alive, left me healthy, self-sufficient, prosperous and taking part in something important, and not a sickly little guy that nobody needs, only suited for experimentation on Jackson's Whole, that his own Empire didn't care for until his shoulders got so wide he stopped fitting into doors. Ghem-lords do care about their families, one way or another. And if you want to keep this lovely discussion of who's the bigger freak, by all means, I won't hesitate to hit you where it hurts. But let's not. The worst thing we can do when stuck in a confined space is make a mortal enemy out of each other. Now let me go."

Steve, without saying a word, let him go and left the room. Stark's retort left him without a will to live, let alone a will to keep proving his Empire was right in not letting a sickly asthmatic into the army, that that was on its own caring about him – in a common for Barrayar harsh and stern way. He wanted to crawl somewhere and sit in silence, since there was no gym with weight machines in his reach.

Steve was also berating himself for being so quick to anger and lose self-control. Something always happened to him around Stark, something hot and almost uncontrollable that he couldn't understand. That was the reason of their fight that blew up out of nowhere. That, and not Jarvis or some imagined flaws of Barrayaran security services, any critique towards which Steve always took personally.

Back in the room, Tony was also cursing himself. What kind of diplomat was he! After five minutes of a lovely conversation about culture differences, he almost provoked the guy into attacking him! 

"And chased him out of his own room," sadly noted Stark, letting out a hoarse sigh. His throat was starting to hurt.

***

After a few minutes of metaphorically crawling up walls and cursing himself with all words imaginable, the Captain went to work on building bridges. He started with Jarvis.

"I honestly didn't want to offend you in any way," he said, after finding the ba in a room small like a pencil case dedicated to the video collection. "But I'm afraid your master won't believe me."

Jarvis tore his careful gaze away from the screen with mysterious chemical formulas and stared at the Barrayaran. 

"Ghem-lord Stark isn't my master," he corrected Steve. "And he's too attached to me emotionally to be offended on my behalf. I am not offended."

"I'm sorry," said Steve, softly. "I was angry and said things I shouldn't have said. As did he. How do you reconcile, on Cetaganda?"

"The same way you do on Barrayar, I think," the ba shrugged. "Usually somebody apologizes, and, in a case of serious hurt, also brings gifts. If the apologies and gifts are accepted, the conflict is considered finished. If not... it may lead to ritual suicide, but that does not happen often."

"What a joy," grumbled Steve. "And what form should those apologies take? Not poetry, I hope?"

"That is exactly it, in fact," answered the ba, its voice serious. "But ghem-lord Stark hates traditional poetry."

"So, untraditional will do fine?" Steve scratched his chin. "Great. Should the gifts be hand-made? Do they have to have at least some artistic value?" 

Jarvis thought about it for some time, looking back at his formulas.

"It is hard to say. Normally, hand-made gifts considered to have artistic value by default. But I am not aware of talents attributed to Barrayaran people, and even less so about yours."

"Thank you for the consultation, Jarvis," Steve went so far as to bow slightly. "It's nice to talk to someone who knows what they're talking about."

Steve wasn't even a professional artist, let alone poet. But he was driven by sudden bout of inspiration and, to be frank, honestly wanted to make amends. Stark was... too interesting to let pass the opportunity to get to know him. Too irritating. But also necessary?

Yeah, that description rang true.

A few hours later, when Steve returned to the cabin where he abandoned the furious Cetagandan, said Cetagandan was far less furious and more unhappy, sleepy and clearly sick. His eyes were redder, and his skin paler. Stark looked at the returning Captain with suspicion and even slight fear.

"I shouldn't have wasted time writing you a repentant limerick," decided Steve, right at the door, and delayed making amends till better time. "And I definitely shouldn't have wasted time on a portrait. You're not fine at all, are you?" he touched Stark's forehead and almost snatched his hand away. "You've a fever!"

"Yes," Stark admitted, briefly. "And don't even think of trying to cure me with ethanol. I'd rather have that healing moss that my dad chewed on all the time. But we don't have any."

"I won't." Steve recoiled at the mental image of Walter chewing on moss with an enthusiasm of a reindeer, checked Stark's pulse and frowned. "Can I ask Jarvis for help? I already apologized to him for... saying those things in the heat of the moment."

"Good. It's good you apologized, but don't call him. I don't need medicine, only hot drinks, warmth and rest," Stark went silent for a moment. "I shouldn't have lashed out and said all those things about your father. Sorry."

"I shouldn't have either," admitted Steve. "I shouldn't have shared my highly valuable opinions on things I don't know anything about. And I can make sure you get your drinks, warmth and rest. If you let me, of course."

"Well, I can hardly fight you right now," Stark gave him a feeble smile. "So yes, I will. And... are we reconciled? I won't get any poetry or presents? That's a shame. Should've stayed angry longer."

"I was just thinking that those won't make a good impression on a sick person," said Steve. "I'll show them to you when you get better. Is that a good enough incentive to try to do it faster?"

"I guess so," Stark nodded and moved closer to the wall, the clothes and blankets he was packed into making a rustling noise. "I occupied your cabin, but I've no strength left to get to another. Even less so to repair the broken doors in my own."

"You just saved me a lot of time that I would've spent going back and forth," retorted Steve. "I might not know much about sick ghem-lords and the appropriate care of thereof, but I do know that you can't leave an ill person by themselves. And sorry I disappeared for so long. I felt like one of us was going to strangle another any moment. You don't mind me lying down next to you?"

"I think if one of us is going to mind that, it likely will be you," Tony smiled and moved even further. "And I'm not really ill, just shock, stress and anger decided to take their toll on me all at once. It'll pass."

"I hope so," Steve lied down on the edge of the couch. "It's true, we don't really... do closeness like this. We do, however, make sure to help warm up those who are cold. One good guy used to do that for me when I was young and frail."

"Well, I'm neither young, nor frail, but I am more than just cold," Tony let out his hand from under the blanket and maliciously touched Steve's neck. "So, to be honest, I can't find it in myself to care about propriety, I'm going to wrap myself around you and get warm. Like a snake on a stone."

Stark did exactly what he promised. Steve never met a person who could hug him like this, from all over, like a boa constrictor. Then again, Stark wasn't trying to choke him, he just climbed onto Steve and kept breathing in his neck.

It was quite embarrassing. It was all fine and well for Stark, probably, but a young healthy Barrayaran that even Vorromanof couldn't make go on a date...

"Is something wrong?" asked Tony, with his most polite tone of voice. "Are you uncomfortable? I'm feeling very warm and cozy."

Steve tried to find suitable words to describe the situation and couldn't, so he mumbled something about cultural differences and that it's not a done thing on Barrayar, lying with someone and hugging them like that, if they're not your spouse or a lover.

"But you can probably do that with friends," he noted, "especially when their teeth can't stop chattering."

"Oh yes, the chatter of the teeth does help to become friends faster," agreed Stark and gave Steve a surprisingly soft smile, as if to show that he wasn't angry, this was just his way of talking.

Steve nodded and tried to move away slightly, while still being close enough to keep warming Stark up. His cock was behaving far more than friendly, but even if Stark noticed anything, he didn't comment. He did get noticeably warmer and his feet, pressed to Steve's, stopped resembling icicles. He also wasn't breathing as hard, and, for some reason, Steve thought the smell of his perfume grew stronger.

When Bucky was warming up his little self like this, Steve fell asleep and woke up still sick, but at least without a fever. Now, he couldn't even think of falling asleep next to Stark, but even the restless Cetagandan wasn't sleeping, so the Captain started listing regulation articles in his head. Then, started thinking about purposes of this strange game between their empires and who, beyond Baron Fell, could be involved. 

The hand that touched him in the place that demanded attention for a while now, was a complete surprise.

"Sta... Tony!" Steve breathed out and tried to keep from moving. Who know what the Cetagandan could've meant by this, and he did have long nails.

"Yes?" said Stark, his demeanor and voice completely unperturbed. "Sorry, couldn't resist. I told you that this sock you dressed in accentuates everything very nicely and doesn't hide a thing."

"And what did you find so interesting under that sock?" asked Steve, hoarsely, admitting his defeat. He couldn't very well demand it was an accident, the 'sock' really didn't hide anything. "Did you forget I'm a Barrayaran and a man? Relations like this are frowned upon in our culture. You should be aware of this, being a consul."

There was still a chance to turn it into a joke, but a small one, if Stark kept stroking him like this.

"Relations like that were not accepted in your culture about a hundred years ago, which didn't stop them from blooming, especially among officers. The last half a century, they're not encouraged, of course, but are definitely not rejected," Stark smirked, still continuing his evil ministrations. "And I think, I'm making quite clear what I'm so interested in. Although, it's not just that."

"And I think," started Steve, but shut up when Stark answered him with such a gaze that stole all his words from his tongue. He didn't want to argue, what he did want, was to kiss Stark, and that was exactly what he did, hugging the wicked Cetagandan, and belatedly feeling surprised at this turn of events. "Alright, it doesn't matter."

"It does matter," answered Tony through a sudden kiss, he was expecting to do a lot more convincing before this Barrayaran monument to stubbornness agreed to anything, "it matter quite a lot, what you think, to me. If you decide to fight me after all, I'll get it, even though I'll have to think that my father didn't finish his work, and your brain is not as good as the rest of you."

"Let's not talk about your father, now," Steve breathed out, wondering if Stark had a chance to poison him with an aphrodisiac. One that works through contact, for example. He never wanted anyone as much as he wanted him. "And I'm not going to fight, just... are you sure?"

"Well, we can go to sleep, insult each other again, drink another gallon of tea and play chess," started listing Tony, now touching him with both hands anywhere he could reach. "Or we can warm up faster, let adrenalin out of our systems and get to know each other in the most pleasant of ways."

Playing chess was absolutely out of the question in such a state, or drinking tea. Steve hovered over Stark, gave him a quick kiss and then asked with a sudden suspicion:

"Are you sure there's no aphrodisiacs involved in this? Just so I know."

"Will you believe me if I say I am?" asked Tony, somewhat surprised. "That's weird. Besides, I rather believe my insensitivity to drugs and alcohol – aphrodisiacs are no different."

"That's fair," Steve nodded, losing his worry about external influence and gaining some more of that rush of desire, which he went to demonstrate, being neither idiot, nor a virgin.

"I take it our roles in bed are pre-determined and not up to question," muttered Stark and threw his head back, following the hand that pulled his hair.

"Well, if you really mind..." Steve started kissing Stark's neck, and his collarbones, and lower. It wasn't the same as being with the girl, a lot more muscles, but it was so soft and enticing all the same. "But if you don't, I'd... you know. Barrayaran prejudice."

"That's a convenient excuse," marveled Stark, but he didn't argue, it wasn't worth another battle royal.

Steve appreciated his consent with great enthusiasm. He had a half-formed thought in his head, that all this was undignified for a Barrayaran officer, but... the hotter the kisses got, the louder moaned Stark, the less attention he paid to it, until there was none left, melting like an icicle in boiled water.

Tony was too good to think of something as inconsequential and inopportune. He smiled, leaning into Steve's gestures. He wasn't ashamed of a thing, the opposite, really. As Steve's kisses went lower, reaching Stark's hips, and he froze, looking at a smooth, completely hairless groin, Stark commented, his usual vitriol almost missing from his voice:

"What, did you expect modifications here as well? They went out of fashion during my grandfather's time. So, no ten differences here."

"They were common before, then?" muttered Steve, stroking a completely normal cock. He had ideas in his head, one madder than another. He wanted to please him with his tongue, but his lack of experience... Then again, if he just remembered what he himself had liked...

Finding his resolve, he leaned down and took the head of Tony's cock in his mouth. The smell of weaponry got stronger, but not unpleasant, and Stark groaned, clearly not out of pain.

"I would say something sarcastic, but there's so many options I don't know what to start with," said Stark, unable to keep his mouth shut. "Keep doing what you're doing."

Steve couldn't answer, for obvious reasons, and couldn't even think what possible options for saying something sarcastic were there. He took Stark by his hips and took his cock deeper into his mouth, trying various things, then raised his head and said:

"Keep in mind, this is the first time I'm doing this. So, don't keep quiet if I'm doing something you don't like it."

"Keeping quiet is not about me at all," reassured him Tony. "And if you're not lying – and why would you – you've a natural talent."

Stark tried to fight the urge to run his fingers through Steve's shortly trimmed hair and the urge, understandably, won.

On Steve's part, he quite enjoyed that, especially considering that Stark wasn't pulling on it. Encouraged by the compliment, Steve continued sucking Stark off, even managed to find a pleasing rhythm. His hands kept stroking Stark's hips and then went and squeezed his perky ass.

His head went dizzy, imagining what was to follow.

"I wouldn't have minded at all keeping enjoying this like a lazy sod, but I'm afraid you'll think I'm egotistical," said Tony in a few minutes.

Steve reluctantly let his cock out of his mouth and hovered over him, hoping Tony wasn't afraid. Based on the way he looked, though, Tony wasn't that easily scared. The fact that he started taking of his under armor, quite skillfully at that, hinted at his fearlessness.

Steve, though, was somewhat scared for him.

"I think," he said, "we'll need... something. You know what I mean."

"I'm absolutely sure I don't," Stark grinned. "Then again... Yes, I guess I do. But I don't exactly feel like calling Jarvis and asking him to find some lube, sending him to look for ethanol was quite enough."

"Ethanol won't help in this," answered Steve. "That would be barbaric. Do you not have any cream or things like that?"

From the point of view of the Barrayaran captain, the Cetagandan with a habit of putting paint on his face had to have carry around a ton of cosmetics, including creams.

"Nobody was suggesting ethanol as a lubricant," said Tony. "What horrible thoughts you have. The next minute you'll be suggesting fir oil. There should be some cream in the bag. It smells of lilies of the valley, for a change, not like weapons. I've no idea why I have it. It's probably my mother's idea."

He let his hand down, found the bag dropped under the couch by touch and fumbled for a small cold jar.

"Probably," agreed Steve, who felt somewhat guilty talking about a woman whose son he literally was lying on. "Give it here," he took Stark's haul away from him. It was really a jar of cream, dense and smelling like a whole bouquet of flowers. Steve even felt his nose tingling.

"Now, I would wonder if it's aphrodisiac, but even if so, what does it change?" Stark smirked. "Not to mention it wouldn't work."

"Probably," agreed Steve, spreading the dizzyingly smelling cream along his cock. Every little touch made him want to scream, and he barely stopped himself from hurrying. "And I don't need those. I'm already very..."

"I can see that," the shameless Cetagandan nodded and reached to touch, so he could also feel as well as see. "You know, you won't so inarticulate before."

"I had some blood in my head, before," Steve bit his lip. "You're sure I won't hurt you?"

"How can I be sure?" Stark smirked. "Nobody thought of putting a prophetic device in me, what an oversight on their part. Stop talking, will you? I thought you were a man of action."

"Well, you asked," Steve said, hoarsely, and proved to Stark that yes, he was a man of action. He pushed into the pliant but tight body, biting his lips, expecting Stark to start screaming, and he'd have to stop, which was not at all what he wanted... But Stark made no noises unbecoming of a ghem-lord, only breathed out, quickly, as if preparing to jump from a great height, and pushed his sharp nails into the Captain's back.

"Hurts," said Steve, pausing and hoping he didn't hurt Start. The man's body was griping him so hard his vision went dark. "You're so tight... come on, relax, I can't even pull out when you're like this."

"Nobody... was asking about that," hissed Tony. "That's just like you... we could've been doing it in the Embassy... in peace and quiet... on a huge bed..."

"But you..." Steve leaned down and kissed the twisted lips of the displeased Cetagandan. He didn't even know what he was trying to do – comfort him? Make things easier? Nothing was getting any easier for himself, Stark was hot and smooth, he wanted to push all the way in...

"Listen, we've already established that you don't understand me, and I, surprisingly, don't understand you. But it doesn't stop us from rack our brains over intrigues – and it shouldn't stop us now," Stark murmured, quickly, like a tongue-twister. "Just keep kissing me like this, and everything will be fine."

Steve obeyed. He forced himself to keep still and keep kissing Tony till he felt dizzy, and Tony... Tony melted under him, pulled him in, inch after inch, excruciatingly slow, his silky hot insides hugging him up to his balls, his hips hugging Steve, his fingers now pushing into his back encouraging.

He kissed Stark, gently and gratefully, and finally pushed his hips forward, like he wanted to for a while. That was rewarded plentifully: Tony let him in even deeper which seemed impossible before, pressed his hips around Steve even harder, as if urging a horse, albeit in a different position.

"I'm gonna..." Steve pressed his teeth together, waiting through an attack of highest pleasure. He just couldn't get used to this, it was so hot and sweet, Stark was breathing into his lips, twisting under him, pushing forward, Steve was tempted to start reciting the regulations to stop himself from coming.

"No damn way," Tony gave him an absolutely mad smile and bit Steve's lip. That helped for a while: Stark's teeth were also quite sharp. Steve was grateful, honestly, otherwise, he wouldn't have had a chance to last. He moaned, pushed his hips forward again, managed to find a good rhythm and started fucking Stark the way the man seemed to like it most: quickly, deeply and roughly. The moans he let out, at least, were very encouraging. Of course, Stark tried to stop himself from making too much noise and drawing the attention of the whole ship and the ba to them. Nothing stopped him from talking, though.

"S-s-stronger," he hissed like a snake, urging Steve with his feet. "Fas-s-ster!"

This was the perfect moment for the internal communication line to come alive and for Jarvis to ask if they were alright and if they needed any help. To his own surprise, Tony managed to answer calmly and coherently that they were fine and that, if they needed any help at all, it was with keeping other Cetagandans away from the cabin. Jarvis seemed to have realized what was going on and disconnected without any additional questions.

"The ba," Stark sighed, disappointed but serious. "What do they know."

"The ba," agreed Steve, grimly. Jarvis' intervention didn't cool him down. If anything, it helped calm down a bit, and he figured out that Tony probably wouldn't mind being caressed on the outside as well as inside. "Do you like this?"

"Everything's amazing," reassured him Tony, looking very pleased indeed. "Trust me, if I don't like something, I'll start screaming, biting, and possible smelling of acetone."

For now, he smelt only of a pleasant mix of lilies of the valley, gunpowder and gun oil.

"Let's not do that," managed to utter Steve, who was busy mastering the art of coordinating movements of his hips and hands. Stark was clearly in favor of that, even his gaze went smoky. "Keep in mind that I'm not gonna last long."

"This whole business... isn't really about the duration," said Tony. "Besides, we can always give it another go."

Steve, completely in favor of that proposition, doubled his efforts, making Stark bit his lip and arch his back as if he was going to do a bridge, despite an additional weight of a hundred kilograms. His moans were so sweet, that Steve didn't have a chance of lasting any longer.

The first thing Tony did after catching his breath was twist and crawl from under Steve. The Captain tried to stop him, but Tony was implacable.

"I also like cuddling, but only after a shower. These lilies are starting to irritate me. By the way, it helped, my throat doesn't hurt anymore, and I haven't felt this healthy for a while.

"I think it'll be a good idea to have another course of this... treatment," the Captain grinned, giving Tony a possessive look. "As a preventive measure."

"I'll trust your unprofessional but very valuable opinion," Stark nodded.

He gave the shower doors a suspicious look and didn't shut it behind him – which had the added benefit of not having to turn on the light.

***

When a member of the crew whose name Steve still didn't know announced on the internal communication line that Steve was being officially summoned by the capital, neither Steve, nor Tony were fit to appear in a polite society. Nethertheless, Steve tried to make himself presentable and took comfort in the fact that the collar of his uniform hid his painted neck when he sat in front of the comm. Vorromanof, frowning, looked back at him.

"You took your time," she said, instead of a formal greeting. "We have news."

"I'm all ears," reassured her Steve.

"We caught the mercenaries. They were really from Jackson's Whole. They were so eager to cooperate it was honestly weird."

"Were? Did they die from a fast-penta overdose?"

"No. It's just that now that we know everything, it's not so weird anymore. First of all, now I'm also a direct subordinate of Colonel Fury."

"My condolences," Steve sighed.

"Secondly, I'm also a Captain." Nat showed him her new stripes that hadn't yet taken their place on her collar.

"Congratulations," Steve answered, his tone unchanged.

"And thirdly, I've studied your personnel file. The real one," said Vorromanof, with an emphasis, and it finally dawned on Steve that the feeling that the unyielding vor-lady was hiding was reverent awe. That was not a good additive to their personal and professional relationships.

"And? For the record, that's not a good reason to look at me like I'm an Aral Vorkosigan monument that came alive," he sighed, again.

"I'll... have to think about it," Vorromanof nodded, slowly, as if moving underwater. "Later. When I process the fact that I tried to set you up with women who are five times younger than you are. Anyway, I don't know why Baron Fell told so much to his mercenaries, I would've went with 'find him and bring alive', but they knew why their employer needed you. I don't know what kind of contracts they had, but, learning that you disappeared from the planet in an unknown direction, they almost tried to kill themselves. Those are serious people, practically samurai."

"I can't really feel sorry for them," Steve shook his head. "Who else knows, now?"

"Besides me, the Colonel and those guys? Clint. Maybe, Fury's direct superiors. Your Cetagandan is also aware, I'm guessing," she added, quite perceptively. "The mercenaries won't be able to share that sacred knowledge with anyone for quite a while, but... Well, you'll be better off disappearing in an unknown direction. The Colonel told me to say that you'll be able to come back when he'll be completely sure that nobody'll try to disassemble you to build an army of undefeatable soldiers with your example."

"So I'm exiled for my own good?"

"Why exiled?" asked Vorromanof, surprised. "You're working. I'm going to drop a five-layered pack of encrypted dispatches for you. You're still an Imperial Courier, aren't you? Get them delivered."

"From a Cetagandan ship?" Steve sighed, resigning himself to his fate.

"Something tells me that impertinent ghem-lord will be happy to help you move around the galaxy," Nat smirked. "You've a hickey under your ear. Should we ask them to add hoods to uniforms?"

The pack of dispatches landed in the terminal shortly after. Steve quickly looked through the addresses and could only scratch his head. It seemed, the Colonel was determined to keep him as far away from home as possible: the letters were bound for Illyrica, Escobar, Eta Kita, even Athos.

"Eta Ceta is closest," said Tony, after listening to his summary of the conversation with Natasha. "And that's why we're not going there."

"But..."

"Anybody aware of your destinations and going after us would expect you to pass the tunnels in the logical way. So, first we'll got to Escobar... let's say through Tau Ceta, Dolton and Beta colony."

"Are you aiming to make us sick as fast as possible, with all those jumps?"

"No. I just always wanted to see the world beyond the Empire. My ship – my routes. Besides, I can't wait to get you to Beta colony."

"That's what I suspected," Steve nodded and thought to himself that he wasn't actually against the idea, and it's not like Nat gave them any deadlines for those deliveries.

Jarvis, upon learning that their sad hovering near the wormhole tunnel was over and to be replaced by a series of quick jumps and a kaleidoscope of worlds, nodded and volunteered to bring the news and the route to the pilot and the crew. Steve was starting to think that those invisible Cetagandans were like magic mice in fairy-tales: you've never seen them, but the work got always done. Jarvis also suggested that perhaps the ghem-lord should write a letter to haut-lady Mio, to calm her worries.

"She asked three times already if you are alright," added the ba.

"What, with those puzzling haikus?" Stark grimaced.

"Not at all, the last haiku was quite clear."

Answering the ghem-lord's questioning gaze, the ba gave him a thing smile and declared:

"Do you not feel shame  
For making your mother age  
By keeping silence?"

Instead of feeling shame, Tony beamed at the ba:

"So she is capable of speaking clearly after all! Thank you, Jarvis, especially for not dragging me from important business by my ears, even if I asked you to."

The ba nodded serenely. Tony let him go talk to the crew, adding:

"I'll write to her. I think I have things to tell her."

***

The kaleidoscope of worlds they had to look into was incredible and dizzying. They changed the route a couple of times, so even the pilot would probably be hard-pressed to recreate it. And who even cared about the route when there were so many new things to see and experience?

The Betan Orb was just outstanding, even though Steve had to admit that what was considered as open-minded on Barrayar, on Beta was seen as extreme puritanism and quickly abolished. Even Tony had to admit that Cetagandan bed life was too serious and prim in some cases.

On Illyrica, they lingered. Steve quickly delivered his encoded message to the Barrayaran Embassy, of course, but Tony got stuck in the local tech park, curiously named Monocrystalline Valley. He spent three days there and came back happy and pensive.

They didn't stay long on Tau Ceta, they went to a couple of local parks and had a dinner in a restaurant. Then, Steve saw the other members of the crew for the first time, there were four of them, and they were the grimmest young Cetagandans in the world, even the festive gold and red face-paint with all those twirls didn't make them look joyful.

"They don't like staying away from home for so long," whispered Tony. "It's fine, they'll deal. They'll come back with good recommendations and have a chance for good genetic contracts. That's a good enough recompense for visiting worlds that seem barbaric to them."

There wasn't much to do on Dalton station, so Steve dived into the info net. The first assortment of news had a strange effect on him, and he came to Stark's cabin with a weird mix of relief and sadness on his face.

"What happened?" immediately asked Stark, stopping his tinkering with a small device, probably copied from Illyrica.

"They reported that the oldest head of Jackson's Whole houses is dead," answered Steve, slowly, "Baron Fell didn't get to me in time."

"Well, don't start crying about him," Stark hummed, completely devoid of any sympathy. "The old man relied too much on brain transplants (which is disgusting, in my opinion), so he didn't really treat his body well and ruined it with all the bad habits he could think of. When he finally realized what he was doing, the prepared clone was dead. If he didn't drink, slept at least ten hours a day, and most importantly, didn't live on Jackson's Whole..."

"I don't exactly feel sorry for him," Steve tried to explain, "it's just weird. I didn't even know him, and yet his life depended on me. And here we are."

"His life depended on him. He only relied on you to get his youth and strength back," Tony brushed him off.

"I guess," Steve fell silent. "If he's dead, his contracts with the mercenaries are void, right? So I can go back home?"

"No way," Stark shook his head, which made his grown hair get in his mouth and he spit them out. "If you don't recall, the Cetagandan Empire, meaning my mother, is still very interested in your body. And something tells me your own troops are not going to be too interested in morals and lawfulness of human experimentation when your story will catch the light of day. And it will, too many people know about it already."

"What am I to do, then?"

"Keep delivering your dispatches. How many do you have left?"

"Three. One for Eta Ceta, one for Escobar – we still didn't travel there, and one for Athos."

"That's where you should've hidden for at least a dozen of years," Tony sighed, wistfully. "But you'll die from boredom, there's nothing really to do, there. Alright, Escobar it is."

***

Escobar was a peaceful world, satisfied and beautiful. It looked quite proper, but Tony looked a little wary, and the four Cetagandans wearing the colors of his house, barely jumped from shadows.

"It's like a... window display for Jackson's Whole," explained Stark to perplexed Steve and Jarvis. "It looks proper and beautiful, but you should keep your guard. And never sign any contracts with anyone."

That wasn't in Steve's plans, so he shrugged and kept looking at everything in cheerful and relaxed fashion. Judging by what he saw, Walter... that is, Howard chose a good cover, he did resemble the locals quite a lot.

Thinking about the senior Stark, Steve automatically started looking for something familiar in his surroundings. A sign, a brand, just something...

"Look at that," he drawled, "it's the middle of winter, but that mansion has an autumn garden around it. In your colors. And there's no dome."

Stark froze, looking the way Steve showed him, and nodded, slowly.

"Looks like real trees, too, not holographic ones. People here don't like the illusions the way we do."

"They don't seem to like Cetagandans here, at all," said Steve, noticing people sending sidelong glances to the group of ghem-lords clad in light tunics.

"What? No, they just expect us to get cold," Tony waved his hand. "If they don't like anyone, it's the Barrayarans. So many years had passed since that war, and still," he smirked, and Steve felt the way that all Cetagandans probably feel on Barrayar. Uneasy.

"You know, judging by the map, the Embassy should be somewhere in this district," he hurried to change the topic. "Let me drop the dispatch, and then we can go take a look at that garden? It's interesting. And it matches your face-paint."

"It matches it too well, I'd say," murmured Tony. "Alright, let's go."

Delivering another dispatch didn't take long, and the strange group of Cetagandans and a lonely Barrayaran were back in front of the peculiar garden soon enough.

"No, wait," Stark took a closer look at the trees. "The trees are real, but the leaves aren't. Do you remember what I did at the first banquet? It's the same thing here. But why? What for? Who would spend all that energy keeping a garden looking like this? It's dreadfully expensive. Doing something like this on a space station would be only slightly more expensive..."

"Well, maybe the person who lives here is really rich and loves autumn," suggested Steve.

"Or there's such a powerful source of energy in this house that the garden is feeding off its excess," commented the ba, its voice having an almost dream-like quality to it.

"I don't think so," said Tony, after a moment of reflection. "Steve is probably right. I can't even imagine how much energy your supposed source has to make, for the garden to be working only on excess. Even a whole cellar of enriched uranium wouldn't suffice."

"Let's go in and ask," offered the Captain, feeling his professional paranoia creeping towards forming a conspiracy theory with a holographic garden at its core. "There's no fence, and no checkpoint."

"Right, if the owner didn't want any guests, they would have some kind of barrier," agreed Tony and moved to the door with determined steps, the tails of his garment flowing behind him.

He knocked, and they heard a loud shout of 'Coming!', before the door opened, revealing to their eyes a small, barely reaching Tony's waist, boy of about four years with dark hair. It wasn't quite clear from the get-go how he managed to reach the door handle and why there were no adults present, who had to be looking after him and who shouldn’t have let him open the door before strangers.

"Are you on business?" asked the boy, seriously. "He's busy, but if it's business, I can tell him."

"Who is that he?" asked Tony, but the boy only snorted, thinking he was being joked with. How can anybody not know whose house that was?

"Come in," he waved his hands. Tony told his people to wait outside and call the police, in case something happens, and walked inside. Jarvis looked in as well, but then shook his head and stayed outside. Steve, however, couldn't hold his curiosity and followed inside.

There were a lot of children inside, some of them clearly very strange. For example, Steve could swear that the boy sitting on a windowsill with his attentive gaze trained on something outside was green a moment ago, but upon seeing strangers in the house, turned it the light brown color typical for citizens of Escobar. A girl a few years older was talking about something with a boy with slanted eyes, absent-mindedly twirling a strangely shaped battle staff in her hands. It looked dangerous.

Somebody whisked past them, almost invisible, like a silver-grey shade, and a voice sounded from deep inside the mansion.

"Billy, you're right, it's really him!"

"I'm guessing Billy is the one who opened the door," said Steve, quietly. "All of this is very strange."

"You'll get used to it," commented an almost grown-up girl, passing them by with a tray full of cups. The tray was really heavy, pulling her sideways, but she was keeping her balance with a help of... a squirrel's tail?

"Hmm, I'm guessing, unlike the leaves, this is real," whispered Tony, which made another girl, red-haired, with black tattoos and cat-like green eyes roll them at Tony's remark.

"It's just a tail," she said. "Not the strangest thing here."

Her own tail, long, with black and red stripes and a charming white spot at its end, was tapping the floor.

"I think I know who they are," whispered Tony, pulling Steve aside. "They're experiments of one of Jackson's Whole Houses. Not Rioval or Bharaputra, those stopped their activities years ago, but something smaller that stayed undetected long enough to expect the disappearance of its competitors. But why here?"

"Because the atmosphere on Jackson's Whole is too paranoid. Raising children there didn't seem like a good idea to me," said somebody new, coming down from the second floor.

He looked like a middle-aged Escobaran, his skin dark, his hair gray and trimmed short, but Steve, who travelled the world for a couple of months already with Cetagandans, easily recognized their compatriot. He found that somewhat weird, that he didn't figure that out before, but decided that he was missing a point of reference. Now, he knew for certain that only a Cetagandan could barely age twenty-five years in a century.

The mysterious 'he' also recognized them both and froze, not knowing who to start with. Then, he gave them a wide smile.

"I should've got used to the fact that Mio is never wrong. She advised me to expect you, and here you are."

It wasn't visible under the face paint, but Steve knew that Tony's face that alternatively red and white, and then back again. He was clearly not capable of the answer, so Steve took the reins in his hands.

"And here we are. So, how should I call you? Howard? Walter?"

"Come on, I'm still Volt for my friends," the house's master smirked. "Let's come upstairs, into the office. We shouldn't embarrass the young ones and stop them from making their usual chaos."

Tony nodded and followed, his legs stiff. He was too used to considering his father dead and absolutely did not expect to meet him here, on Escobar... presiding over a kindergarten?

"There's a lot of kids here," said Steve, cautiously. "Some of them are not entirely human."

"Of course. Jacksonians, in their rush to make more money, completely forget that humans are supposed to stay humans," complained Howard, opening the door of his office. It was huge, furnished like a weird mix of bedroom, lab and library. "Some of my wards adapted well, but female animals still refuse to leave the house. I told them so many times about the legendary Taura, they're still scared."

"Why the fuck do you even have a crowd of mutant children?" barked Tony, suddenly. Steve, already familiar to sudden bursts of anger after a prolonged silence that Tony had sometimes, moved closer, in case he needed to hold him and stop from doing something unreasonable.

"What do you mean, why? I stole them from Jackson's Whole," confessed the elder Stark. "And this isn't the first pack of them, the first one grew up and opened their orphanages, two on Escobar, one on Beta, and others someplace else..."

"And when you supposedly died..."

"Listen, I knew what to expect, the story with Steve showed me," Howard spread his hands and sat down on the corner of the table. "Alive, I would draw unneeded attention. Think about it, ghem-lord Stark at war with Jackson's Whole Houses! Dead, I'm of no importance. All these children were brought here as biological samples, at least, that's what the technicians see them as. Escobar is one of the biotechnological centers. There's nothing weird about a head of a corporation travelling god knows where for samples from time to time."

"And my mother knew, of course, all this time. And she didn't tell me. She didn't even hint at it," said Tony, slowly. It was impossible to tell, what he was feeling more: admiration or resentment.

"Of course, she didn't," confirmed Howard. "If three people know something, everybody knows it. Two still have a chance to keep it secret."

"That's very... reasonable," Tony finally found the word, "and cold-blooded. If haut-ladies wore face paint, my mother’s main color would be blue, to reflect that."

"Blue is also for cunning," reminded Howard. "And that's her, truly. Did you already figure out that she wasn't going to take apart your lover and put the parts at the Emperor's feet?"

"I did, recently," Tony nodded, shameless. Steve blushed and wondered, what gave them away. Was it the hickeys again? But he didn't have any.

"It's the smell," Volt smiled and looked at Steve slyly. "You smell the same way."

"Don't change the topic!" interrupted Tony. "If she doesn't want to become an haut-lady again, why did she send me to Barrayar? It's not particularly comfortable, there, in case you didn't know. And there's heaps of Jacksonian mercenaries. They tried to kidnap Jarvis."

"I see," Howard frowned. "Where's the ba now?"

"Here, with us. He's waiting outside."

"That's a shame. He should've come in. Alright, we'll invite him," Howard stood up and started walking around the table, remarkably resembling Tony during his 'interrogation'. "I asked Mio to send you to look for Steve. I've heard rumors he's finally been awaken, but I couldn't come check for myself. I try not to leave Escobar more than absolutely necessary: you think the mercenaries made your life difficult, multiply that by fifty and you'll know how I live."

"And yet your door is open, and the children are answering it," Steve finally started understand Tony's anger during that first quarrel they had.

"Oh, Billy likes answering doors. He can make something like a force-field to hold off unwanted visitors while the others figure out what to do with them," Howard waved his hand, unconcerned.

"What about that... green guy?" Steve couldn't think of a better way to phrase it.

"Teddy? He's not green. Well, he can be that, but it's... complicated. Let's say, he has camouflage built into his system. Like a chameleon, but better."

"Great. And people were trying to kidnap me for being strong and aging slowly?" asked the Captain, sarcastically.

"The old Fell, yeah? He was grasping at straws, these last few years," Howard sighed, as if pitying the man. "Trust me, Steve, it might offend you, but there are many more interesting people, than you are in this world. At least, in scientific sense. Anyway, Tony was supposed to find you, and you both were supposed to find me."

"That's a sophisticated enough intrigue for our Constellation," Tony nodded. "Are you going to tell us, what's next? I never liked quests."

"Come on, quests are beautiful, they stop your mind from getting old," Howard smirked. Seeing as the man was slightly older than a hundred and fifty, Steve was inclined to trust him on that.

"Well then, keep in mind that we are both on duty."

"You are on vacation," categorically declared Howard, sitting down again. "You'll get the memo once you get back on the ship. And Steve is delivering dispatches, if I'm not mistaken? That's a waste of resources, but it's a good cover. What's your next stop?"

"Athos," admitted Steve. "It's just two jumps away, fortunately."

"Great," a smile on the Cetagandan's face was worthy of the Cheshire cat. "It's a boring agricultural planet inhabited exclusively by men."

"For you, Athos is probably a synonym to hell," commented Tony, sarcastically. He was anxiously pulling at his hair and enviously eyeing Howard's short trim. 

"Something like that. But there's... well, it's somewhat hard to explain. Long time ago, one of your mother's colleagues had her subject escape. The guy is a telepath, he only wanted to get his sister back, and also to be left alone."

"A telepath?" Tony asked, incredulous. "Not that I doubt the haut-lady's talents, but that's..." Tony was about to say 'impossible', but then remembered the children downstairs. "That's highly unlikely."

"As far as I understood, the telepathy was an accident. It doesn't matter. He escaped, found some friends, then a boyfriend and settled down on Athos. He had no name back then, but he adapted his mark and became Terrence See."

"And? Where are you going with this?"

"Well, you know how haut-ladies are. They won't calm down until they intentionally repeat the result they got by chance," Howard grimaced. "Most samples didn't escape anywhere, but one of the last once, marked X, managed, and he also settled down on Athos. He didn't achieve the same happy end that his ancestor got, but he's working on it. He has his own school, a lot of interesting children there, all boys, unfortunately, they don't allow girls and hermaphrodites there. We... well, you can say we work together. If it's not too much trouble, I'll ask you to deliver a message to him, as well."

"Alright," Steve felt like he was dreaming the kind of dream where impossible things are masking as real. Nevertheless, he was curious about having a conversation with a telepath. 

"Great," Howard beamed at them. "Then go bring Jarvis here, I missed him. And stay for a bit, the message would be long and detailed. By the way, you came here clearly having no idea whose house it was, so what did you want?"

Steve and Tony shared a glance.

"We were curious about the autumn garden in a winter city. Then we learned the leaves are holographic, and that brought even more questions. Jarvis suggested that you have a powerful source of energy in your basement, and that's how you deal with excess it generates."

"It was always a smart ba," Howard nodded, calm. "Alright, I'll start with the message later. Come," he walked towards a very Cetagandan-looking screen, pushed it away, touched a control panel, and a part of the wall moved away silently.

Behind it, there was a spiral staircase that went very deep down.

There was a stadium-sized space under the house with a mysterious shining blue device in the center of it.

"Cold fusion reactor," announced Howard, with barely hidden pride in his voice. "Theoretically, it's impossible, but practically, here it is."

"The nickname Volt takes on a whole new meaning," Tony was forced to admit.

Lightning strikes and bright ribbons of light danced behind the glass walls of the reactor that didn't really seem all that reliable. 

In front of the whole construction, another teenage girl was sitting down, not levitating, not growing horns all over her body, just meditating, seemingly, with her eyes closed.

"Carol, are you alright?" called her Howard.

"Yes. Should I leave?" answered the girl, opening her eyes. They were strange, too light and bright.

"If you think your lunch break is over, yes."

"Alright. But I'll come back for early dinner," Carol stood up and disappeared upstairs. She gave the guests a piercing, but short gaze.

"She feeds on energy," Howard answered their unasked question. "It's good that we found this solution. She has this friend who also feeds on energy, but she gets it directly from humans, when she touches them. I've no idea what to do with her. Mio's thinking about it, though. While the Star Crèche is closed to her, I made her a new one, interstellar."

***

The tour around Stark's mansion took longer than expected, so when the guests, including Jarvis who was dragged inside (while the other Cetagandans went back to the ship), were finally preparing to leave, it turned out, it wasn't just nighttime, the dawn was coming pretty soon.

Howard suggested they stay, since there were more rooms than inhabitants in the house, at least for now, and walking around the city at night, no matter how peaceful it seemed, wasn't a good idea.

"Here are the messages, so I don't forget about them tomorrow," he handed Steve a couple of colored disks. "One is for my colleague on Athos, one is for your... what's his name now? Colonel Fury? Some people change names way too often. You are coming home at some point, right? Hand it to him then."

Steve, amazed beyond belief, nodded, grabbed the disks and marched to the bedroom.

"You know, all this makes my head spin," confessed Tony, who already climbed the habitual for Cetagandans huge bed and wrapped around Steve in the most pleasing way. "It all started as just a favor to my mother, and now..."

"And now we're right in the middle of interstellar intrigue that started at least a century ago, if not earlier. Our galaxy is full of people with peculiarities that you're not supposed to mention, your father is alive and leading the most weird boarding school I've ever seen, and he knows my superior who's probably not who he seems to be."

"Not to mention a theoretically impossible energy source that can bankrupt fuel corporations in a second." Tony yawned. "I was used to considering myself a technical genius, but my father is making me self-conscious."

"Yeah. So, what are we going to do?"

"What do you mean? We're going to Athos, of course. That's probably the only world where we'll look like an ordinary couple, among dozens like this," Tony laughed.

Steve imagined it and nodded. He used to complain about office work being boring. Now, he could only dream about it.

"Alright, let's go to Athos. I'd wager we'll get another piece of the puzzle and a new stack of dispatches."

"But at least it's interesting. Mom probably got involved in all of this for the same reasons." Stark made another huge yawn and closed his eyes.

Four jumps away from them, haut-lady Mio D'Stark just finished a collection of haikus for her husband and started on another one, for her son. It seemed impossible to express all her indignation about his prolonged silence and approval of her son's choice in just seventeen syllables. 

She opened his last letter, to read it again in hopes of inspiration.

_‘The codes of cultures are indeed a riddle. We have some similarities in genome, but that cannot be said about whatever it is inside our heads or on our minds. We don’t see eye to eye with Steve, it even could not be granted by a helpful genie: I often find myself prepared to listen; alas, he doesn't seem to be inclined._

_Sometimes he’s not benevolent; moreover, sometimes he acts like he’s my true opponent: he’s straight up hostile, l feel like a spaceship trapped in a tunnel, shutting off for good. But I don't care, since I enjoy our quarrels, I like to see him every single moment. I'd go so far as call myself enamored, if that was even something that I could.’_

The haut-lady smirked – she could relate, having her own personal knowledge of strange couples. Then, she put her hands on the keyboard and started composing.


End file.
